


Earth & Sky

by Mithen



Series: Earth & Sky [1]
Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-26
Updated: 2006-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 60,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark and Bruce have forgotten the events of "Absolute Power," but what else have they lost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Playing With Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [天与地](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729412) by [toudarling (enagismos)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enagismos/pseuds/toudarling)



_My 21st birthday. My mother wore a new white dress. I spilled red wine on it and ruined it. I laughed it off, but actually felt very bad about it. My father gave me a silver sportscar._ He stared at the words on the screen, words he had written just a few weeks ago. The scene was from the alternative life he had remembered, the one Batman had created by saving Bruce Wayne’s parents from death in Crime Alley. The life in which Ra’s al-Ghul had killed the remainder of the JLA and ruled the world, while Bruce Wayne had lounged, happy and contented, by the poolside. The life that had ceased to exist when he and Superman returned their kidnapper “parents” to the future and restored the past to its proper form. The life that, somehow, he had still managed to remember.

Until now. He had felt the memories start to slip away a couple of months after things returned to the status quo, and had recorded page after page of memories in a desperate attempt to cling to that life, to the happiness and warmth he had experienced. But now, looking at his writings, he saw that it was useless. He remembered events, but only in the flattest, most cursory of senses, like you might “remember” a summary of a book, a description of events that you heard happened. None of the emotion remained, none of the passion or joy. Romeo and Juliet: Two young people fall in love and die. Moby Dick: A man chases a whale for revenge. My alternate reality: My parents lived and I was happy. Just stories.

He closed the file and turned his attention to a forensic analysis of a recent case he was working on. On the plus side, he considered ruefully, at least losing memories of his life as the pampered Wayne scion meant he had also lost his memories of that other life, the one in which Batman and Superman had ruled the Earth with brutal efficiency. Of course he had recorded any details that might have been useful in a strategic sense, including some useful additions to his theories on quantum physics and time travel, but the emotions had slowly bled out of the memories in the same way. So he didn’t have to remember how it felt to enjoy crushing and killing those who had opposed him, or how it felt to view the psychopaths who had kidnapped him as his beloved parents. Just seeing the sketch he had made of the perversion of the Statue of Liberty—the looming Batman glowering inland over the city, the gigantic Superman gazing outward across the sea, “Obey or Die” etched at the base—gave him what Tim would probably call “the crawling creeps.” The more he forgot from that timeline the better.

No, there was nothing at all from that reality he would ever want to remember.

He woke that night grasping for a dream that scattered into fragments and faded as he tried to put it back together. It was definitely erotic, but more than that—he could vividly remember the sense of warmth and... _security_ that had suffused the dream. Scraps of physical detail hovered, refused to coalesce: silky black hair beneath his fingers, a gently bitten earlobe, strong hands sliding from his shoulders down his spine. He could almost remember the rumbling murmur of the other person’s voice, telling him that he was perfect, he was loved, he was safe, wrapping him in sound and holding him tightly... No. It was gone. Bruce Wayne rolled over and fell asleep again, his arm flung out across the pillows as if searching for another person there.

  
“B, this is S. I’d like to talk to you.”

“I’m busy right now, Clark. Later.”

“I would really rather it be now.”

A long pause. Clark could hear irritation crackling in the white noise of the com link. Bruce knew that Superman could circumvent the security of the Batcave—or break through it—if he really wanted to; the question was how much Clark was willing to insist and how much Batman wanted to inconvenience him. Clark picked up the very faintest of sighs from the other end of the link.

“The security is disabled. But keep it short, I have a lot on my plate.”

When Superman arrived in the cave the first thing he noticed was that Bruce had the cowl on. That was unusual. Within the safety of his own haunt Bruce usually preferred to deal with Clark face to face. Batman swiveled his chair to face Superman, his arms crossed across his chest and his eyes narrowed. Well, he hadn’t expected to find the other man in a friendly mood in any case. Clark decided to skip the small talk.

“I’ve been asked to come and talk to you.”

“By whom?”

“A variety of the people you work with. Nightwing and Oracle were...the most urgent about it. Robin got in touch with me as well.” Clark didn’t mention that even the Huntress had sent a cautiously worded message to Superman asking him to check on Batman. “They’re all worried about you. You seem...more distant than usual. Less communicative. Less willing to work with people.” _More paranoid,_ he thought to himself, but he was pretty sure using that word would set Bruce off. He wondered if his next sentence would do the same, decided to risk it. “I’m worried about you too.”

Bruce stared at him for a long moment, then raised one shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug and turned his chair back to the computer. It was so overtly dismissive that Clark felt his temper flare. He reached out and turned the chair back slightly, his hands tightening with an urge to rip the Batman cowl off so he could see Bruce’s eyes...but he was pretty sure that would be an unforgivable offense. He realized he was looming over the seated figure as Bruce’s jaw tightened and the other man rose from the chair to even their heights. Always these games with Bruce. Batman’s cape rustled silkily as Bruce turned away to tap at some buttons on a different console, bringing up random schemata of various projects. Clark struggled to keep himself from grabbing the other man’s shoulder and turning him around. Why did conversations with this man wear him out more than fights with Mongul? “Feel free to shrug off my worries, then, but don’t just dismiss Dick and Barbara and Tim like that! They’re your family. My God, do you know what I would _give_ to have family like that?”

“You have family. You have Kara and Kon.”

“It’s not the same. It’s...it’s genetic, but we don’t have the history you have with Dick and the others. I don’t really know Kara and Kon as people that well. You, you’re surrounded by people you’ve shared so much with—and the civilians too, Alfred and Leslie and Jim...you have so many people who are devoted to you and love you, even though—“

“—even though I’m an insufferable and overbearing bastard who spends all my spare energy chasing off anyone who’s ever cared for me?” Was there a hint of a wry smile in Bruce’s voice? Taken aback, Clark spoke without thinking.

“There was a time and place when we were family too, Bruce. When we were brothers...”

The other man swiveled abruptly to face him, some strong but unidentifiable emotion flashing across what Clark could see of his face. “Do you still remember that life? What do you remember?” Black-gloved hands gripped his shoulders and shook him gently. Clark struggled to marshal his thoughts now that he had finally and unexpectedly elicited a response from Bruce.

“I...I remember that we were kidnapped as children...that we were raised together...that we ruled the world together. We—“ his mind groped for something, something important, but it slipped away as swiftly as he grasped at it. He briefly heard what sounded like Bruce’s voice, hoarse and almost unrecognizable with rage, yelling “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll kill you!” Why would he remember that? “I know I killed Ollie and Diana. I know we killed almost everyone else. But...I don’t really remember it.”

Batman sagged slightly, the hands gripping Clark’s shoulders curling into fists of frustration. “I guess I had hoped that with your different physiology, perhaps you would remember more.”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“The same as you, I remember most of the facts but none of the real experience of it. I didn’t even want to remember that life, but now I feel like I’ve lost something，something important...” Clark was suddenly struck with how tired, even haggard, Bruce’s face looked, despite the cowl obscuring most of it. He was abruptly tempted to carry the other man upstairs to the mansion, tuck him into bed and insist he get some sleep. He wondered if this was how Alfred felt toward Bruce.

Somehow he doubted it was quite the same kind of emotion.

Into the suddenly strained silence, the screen of the computer hummed into life, filling with a stylized, scarlet eye. The sharp, metallic voice of the spy satellite called Brother Eye crackled through the cave. “Creator. Your latest attempt to disable me has failed. As you can see, your virus was easy to counter, and eye am still operational. Eye will continue to guard against meta-humans, as you have programmed me to do.”

Bruce inhaled raggedly, his attention riveted on the screen now. “I never programmed you to do the things you’re doing! Shut down the O.M.A.C.s—shut them down now!”

“You cannot locate me, Creator. Eye will execute program Truth and Justice.”

“Nice code name there, Batman, I appreciate it.” Clark didn’t even try to keep the hurt out of his voice, though he hoped it sounded like sarcasm. He had never been very good at sarcasm.

“I didn’t name it that!” Batman snapped back around to glare at Superman, then back to the computer console, typing furiously. “I can’t ever get a good fix on the damned thing—wait, I think I’ve got it narrowed down a little—that’s strange...“

Clark processed the readout on the screen and decided it was about time he took matters into his own hands. He was tired of being unable to fight O.M.A.C.s for fear of hurting the humans inside, tired of being used and manipulated by everyone, tired of wondering just how much of Brother Eye’s programming Batman had done himself. In seconds he was out of the cave and streaking toward the location that had flashed briefly on the screen. He desperately wanted to punch something to kingdom come—he was afraid it might be Bruce, but Brother Eye would be satisfactory too.

  
Batman noticed when Superman disappeared from the cave, of course, and he knew where the Kryptonian must be heading, but was busy enough with trying to track Brother Eye that he didn’t focus on it. It was very strange that he had been able to get any fix at all on the satellite’s physical location; unprecedented, in fact. That made him very uncomfortable. “Superman, be careful. This doesn’t feel right.”

One of the computer screens irised open to show the blackness of space. Red cape swirling about him, fists clenched, eyes bright with the strange, angry red glow of imminent heat vision, Superman came into what must be Brother Eye’s field of vision. The satellite’s voice echoed through the cave as Superman closed on it. “Did you really think my Master did not prepare me to fight this alien? Eye have been specially equipped to deal with such, but have not had the opportunity to test the weaponry...until now.” A high-pitched whine began to ratchet up through Batman’s range of hearing.

“Superman, break off. It’s a trap.” His voice was admirably level and businesslike, he noted. Keeping Superman from attacking killer satellites programmed in part by him, all part of a day’s work for the world’s finest detective... No response from the Kryptonian. The whine had reached teeth-aching levels, and Superman continued to close the distance between him and the satellite.

“Did eye mention, Creator, that eye had jammed your communication channels?” There was definitely a metallic note of mockery in Brother Eye’s voice now. “It should be interesting to see if this kills or merely incapacitates your ally...”

“Clark, break off your approach! Damn it, Brother Eye, don’t do this!” Superman drew closer, close enough that Bruce could see his eyes widen as whatever weapon Brother Eye had energized discharged.

Brother Eye’s camera pulled back to give Batman the best possible view as Superman fell like a star from the sky.

  
Clark came to feeling stone beneath his back. There was a strange sizzling sound, and wisps of something kept obscuring his vision. He blinked. Smoke? Oh. His body and costume were still smoking with the after-effects of whatever Brother Eye had hit him with. He tried to move, but his muscles didn’t seem to be obeying him at the moment, and it hurt enough that he decided to stop for now. Gray stalactites swam through his vision and he realized he was looking at the ceiling of the Batcave. Batman’s voice came to him from somewhere to his right.

“If you’ve hurt him, I’ll...take you apart gear by gear, I swear it.” Batman’s voice was steady and steely; only Kryptonian super-hearing could have detected the faintest tremor running through it. “On the other hand, perhaps I should thank you. You’ve given me back something...something I had lost.” A click of a broken connection, footsteps drawing near him. Clark tried to turn his head to look at the approaching man. The attempt wrung a small sound from him, which he attempted to bite back.

Bruce’s face moved into his field of vision. He had removed the cowl at last, and Clark could see his deep blue eyes narrow as he studied him. A sharp line cut between his furrowed brows; Clark wanted muzzily to reach out and smooth it away, but his muscles were still a mass of jangled agony. Bruce reached out with a bare hand—he had removed the heavy black gloves at some point as well—and lightly touched Clark’s face, then snatched his fingers away as if he had been burned. Which he probably had been, Clark realized, based on the fact that he was still sending off plumes of smoke. The Dark Knight absent-mindedly put his fingers in his mouth and continued to stare at Superman. Clark swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he managed to croak.

The crease between Bruce’s brows sharpened as anger flickered across his face. It didn’t seem to be directed at Clark, though. “You’ve just managed to almost get yourself killed by a spy satellite that _I_ programmed, a satellite which now appears to have been designed ready to kill Kryptonians. Could you at least have the decency not to _apologize_ to me?”

“You didn’t install that weaponry.” He hoped that sounded like an assertion, not a question; he was afraid the inflection had wavered up a bit at the end.

“I did not.”

“OK.”

There seemed to be an infinite depth of extra meaning to both of those flat statements, shades of apology and promise that Clark was still too exhausted to figure out. He filed that away for later consideration. “How did you manage to...?” he tried to wave a hand in emphasis, winced.

“I was able to patch in to the remaining Watchtower teleportation systems just enough to get you here. Fortunately, I managed to bleed off some of your velocity as well.” Clark wasn’t sure it should even be possible to do that, but he was used to that with Batman. Who, he realized, was still staring at him.

“You might need to pour a bucket of cold water over me,” he said without thinking. Bruce’s mouth twitched, and he rose and went to the computer. An unseen fan directed deliciously cool air over Clark until the wisps of smoke died down and he was merely very warm. He managed to roll over onto his stomach and get on all fours while the cave spun around him. When it stopped spinning, he found that he was almost standing, his arm over Bruce’s shoulder and a fair amount of his weight on the other man. He tried to shift it away and Batman made a small growling noise of irritation; he gave up and relaxed into the welcome support. Bruce maneuvered him towards the stairs.

“You’re in no shape to fly anywhere right now, probably won’t be for a day or so. I suspect you’re lucky Brother Eye didn’t bother to really try and kill you. It was more interested in watching me suffer.” Clark wondered if that would make more sense if he weren’t ready to fall over. He couldn’t figure out the connection between him getting knocked out of the sky in flames and _Bruce_ suffering right now.

Soon he was tucked—cape and all—into a very large four-poster bed with the Wayne family crest on it. A house this big didn’t have a guest room he could have stayed in? Still, the sheets were cool and soft, and he was terribly tired. The last thing he saw as he faded out was Batman sitting in a chair by the bed, staring with a preoccupied look into a dark corner of the room. Probably planning how to take out Brother Eye.

He dreamed he was mock-wrestling with his lover. He pinned the other person down and nuzzled the back of the neck where dark hair began to curl so temptingly. His lover smothered laughter with a forearm; if only the other person would turn over so he could see that face, could remember it...

  
Once Superman’s breathing had steadied into the long slow breaths of slumber, Batman transferred his gaze to the other man’s face, open and oddly vulnerable in sleep. He spent a long time studying the Kryptonian’s face, letting his eyes linger deliberately in a way he never could while Clark was awake. Then he held up his hand and eyed his burned fingers ruefully.

“That’s just what I need right now. Just how am I supposed to deal with this?” he asked the air. He didn’t get an answer, but then, he hadn’t expected one. For a long time, he simply sat and let the room grow dark around him. There didn’t seem to be much else he could do at the moment. 


	2. Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the Superman/Batman alternate universe from "Absolute Power"; Bruce's relationship with the alternate form of Dick Grayson

  
_...Dick.  
Yeah?  
The early years. I’ve forgotten if…they were **good** for you, weren’t they?  
The **best.**  
\--Infinite Crisis 4 _

Bruce Wayne shifts in his sleep. He’s dreaming--dreaming of an alternate life in which Batman and Superman ruled America with iron control and steel resolve. His brows furrow and he flinches in his sleep, but can’t seem to wake up. The dream plays out from beginning to end...

*  
Bruce was in a bad mood. He suspected it was because his mother had said something laughingly referring to a time when Clark was just a toddler, some innocuous remark about how difficult he had been to control. Bruce knew his psychological theory well enough to know that he resented such remarks because they reminded him of those nine years Clark had had with their parents that he had not. Why had they waited until his parents were murdered to gather him up into the family with his brother? Bruce knew that he sometimes worried that his parents and Clark were closer to each other than to him. He also knew that such worries were illogical and unfounded. Wasn’t Clark his brother and the other half of his soul? Wasn’t the warm glow of his parents’ approval obvious and reassuring? He had no rational reason, none at all, for these black moods that overcame him.

Despite all that, there were still times when he felt himself filled with a cold and baseless anger. At those times, going hunting with Superman was no good. He needed the risk—however slight—of patrolling the streets of New York alone, of taking the chance that one of the sheep might prove dangerous for just a moment. Only that made the kill truly satisfying.

Batman moved silently through his city.

He heard the sounds of a struggle from an alley and landed noiselessly nearby. This area of town remained notorious for prostitution, however many johns and pimps were executed. Human beings were always weak. In the alley, a bulky man was beating a young boy. The boy tried to dodge the blows with some success, but the other man’s weight advantage was too great. The man was panting and grunting obscenities; the boy remained grimly silent.

Sometimes Batman enjoyed seeing lawbreakers die before they ever even realized they were being judged, but tonight he wanted a more personal touch, so he said quietly but clearly, “Let the boy go.” The man swung around and his eyes narrowed instead of widening; clearly he was also on drugs of some sort. He stepped forward and took one wild swing at Batman, then dropped, his neck broken. No need to prolong the kill, and he didn’t want to risk the boy running off.

The boy was making no move to run, his back against the rough brick wall and his eyes fixed on the shadowy figure who had just executed his tormentor. He was dressed in the usual flashy, cheap outfit of a boy prostitute. Under a mop of jet-black hair, blue eyes glared with a mix of fear and defiance at Batman.

“You. What’s your name?”

A baring of teeth that was nothing near a smile. “They call me Robin.”

Bruce had always assumed it was sentimental metaphor when novelists wrote “his heart turned over in his chest,” but looking at the battered, angry boy, he felt a literal lurching feeling. He reached out and caught the boy by one skinny arm. “You’re going home with me.”

The boy who called himself Robin wrenched away with surprising strength and agility, making a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “I don’t want you in my bed, boy,” Batman said brusquely, realizing only as he said it that it was true. “I just want to get you somewhere safe.”

“Why? Why not kill me like you did him?”

“I don’t know.”

The flatness of the statement seemed to take Robin aback for a second. Then something softened slightly in the sharp angles of his face. “Can’t be worse than here, huh?” He stepped forward into Batman’s shadow.

*  
“Robin?”

“His real name’s Dick, but he says he prefers to go by his street name. He’s an orphan, his parents were circus performers who died when he was just a little kid. He’s bright, good fighting reflexes…”

“Quite good looking when cleaned up, as well.”

A pause, then Bruce twisted in his lover’s arms to face him. “You idiot.” He reached out to tug gently on the curl on Clark’s forehead, then laid his palm on the curve of the other man’s face. “It’s not that at all.”

“No? I could hardly blame you. He’s young, handsome, less alien…” the studied casualness in Clark’s voice was entirely unconvincing.

“You’re my brother. You’re my soul.” Bruce leaned in for a kiss that eventually seemed to convince the other man. “Maybe I just want a protégé, someone that I can hand my knowledge on to, to continue after me. I won’t live forever, you know.”

“Don’t talk like that. Don’t ever talk about that.” One of the few topics that ever seemed to ruffle Clark’s calm was Bruce’s mortality. “I’ll never let you die. Never.” The words were muffled in Bruce’s hair as Clark pulled him close. Bruce just laughed.

“Besides, between you and Selina, when would I ever find the time and energy to make him my lover?”

Clark pulled back to grin at Bruce. “I guess I’d better keep you tired then.”

“Oh, you’d better _try._ ”

*  
Bruce decided to give Robin a week or so to settle into their suite of apartments overlooking New York City. Then it was time to start introducing him to his parents.

Saturn Queen, his mother, was there alone when he decided to broach the subject. Truth be told, Bruce was a little nervous about making the introductions. It was probably better to have him meet Saturn Queen alone first. His fathers could be somewhat daunting.

Eve Aries was sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the view of the skyline when she caught sight of Robin entering the room in the reflection of the windows. Bruce was startled to see his mother pale as she spun around to face the boy. “You!—“ she choked, then recovered herself. “You charming thing!” She laughed sweetly and ruffled Robin’s hair. “I assume this is the surprise you’ve been hinting about, son?”

“Yes, mother. I found him on the streets and I’m training him. He shows great promise.” Bruce smiled at Robin, who stared back at him, overawed in the presence of the great Saturn Queen. “He calls himself Robin.”

Delicate hands tightened briefly in Robin’s dark curls. “What an absolutely adorable name.”

*  
“How did this happen? How could this happen?”

“This is _your_ fault, Mekt! You said we could put off dealing with Grayson, and—“

“How was I supposed to know that in this timeline his parents die three years earlier and that he would disappear entirely? You may recall that at the time we were slightly busy with putting down Ra’s al-Ghul and the remnants of the Justice Society. Simultaneously.”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. What do we do now?”

“I’m going to suggest we simply keep an eye on the boy and see how things play out. I know our Bruce quite well, and I suspect the potential problem should be...only temporary. It would be more dangerous to terminate the boy now, I believe.”

“Very well, Eve. We’ll take your lead for now.”

*  
Robin picked himself off the matting and settled back into a fighting stance. When Bruce came at him again, he dodged nimbly, moving through a handspring and back behind his opponent. Then he swung a foot at what seemed to be Bruce’s unprotected back—only to find himself twisted down hard against the floor. This time he stayed down a little longer, grimacing just a bit. After a brief hesitation, he grabbed Bruce’s outstretched hand and allowed himself to be swung to his feet.

“Sir, can’t I join you and Superman on the streets yet, just for a routine patrol, even? I’ve been training for almost two years now, when can I actually start helping?”

“This isn’t some lark, Robin. These are dangerous people we have to deal with sometimes. You have to be totally ready, completely prepared, honed to deliver the killing blow when it’s necessary.”

Robin sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. “I just feel so useless here sometimes.”

Bruce laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Never think that. You’ll inherit all of this after me, all of my hopes and dreams, if you’re strong and good enough.” He hesitated for a moment, then went on. “Actually, Clark and I were discussing your training progress just the other day. We think you’re about ready to start seeing some real action.” In reality, Clark had argued heatedly that Robin needed to see some practical results from his training. Bruce had felt the boy still wasn’t ready, but had eventually given way. “Would you like to join me on patrol next time?”

Robin did an impromptu back flip of glee, all his exhaustion forgotten. “You won’t regret it, sir! I swear I’ll make you proud!” Bruce turned away to hide his smile and walked toward the door.

“You’d better pick out an outfit to wear so people will start knowing and fearing you by sight. I rather liked the dark blue one.”

*  
Superman returned from checking out a rumor that Ra’s al-Ghul had been sighted in Nepal to find Bruce just settling into bed himself. Early morning sunlight filtered through the apartment as he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of Bruce’s neck. “So how did Robin do out there?”

“He was competent. He was even helpful at one point while we were taking down some gamblers.”

“In other words, he was dazzling. You’re too stingy with your praise, Bruce. The boy idolizes you and he needs your approval.”

“And you coddle him too much. The world is not going to refrain from ripping his guts out just because he’s cute. He’s too gentle. He’s going to have to toughen up.”

“I’ve seen his arms and back after some of your training sessions. He usually comes out of them a mass of bruises. I’m not just being sentimental here, Bruce. He’s of no use to us if you break him.”

A brief flash of genuine anger entered Bruce’s voice, something Clark rarely felt directed at him. “I took my lumps when I was being trained as well, and I never expected our parents to go easy on us. The fate of the world depended on it.” When Clark opened his mouth to say something else, Bruce snapped, “Don’t lecture me on how to train the boy, Clark. I know better than you what the human body and spirit are capable of.”

A hurt silence descended. Eventually Bruce rolled over with a sigh and gathered the other man close, his eyes speaking an apology he would never say out loud. Clark tried to let that be enough.

After a while, Clark said softly, “Do you ever worry that something might happen, that this reality might unravel? That our parents might fail?”

Bruce felt a stab of panic at the thought. “We’ll never let that happen. The world needs us to keep it safe. We can’t fail.”

“If we do, though...if everything comes apart and we end up back in the old world of chaos and war, the so-called ‘Age of Heroes’...will you find me?”

“I doubt we’d ever be very far apart. Like Mekt says, ‘History holds tightly to her truths.’ And the truth is no one else could bear me.”

“Don’t joke. Just promise me.”

A long silence. “I promise, Clark.”

*  
Batman and Robin moved through the fragrant pine woods, making their way north toward a dissident enclave. Somewhere above them Superman winged through the dark skies. Small spy eye cameras ranged near all three of them, whirring quietly and preparing to transmit video of the judgment and execution of the traitors around the world.

The raid itself started relatively smoothly. Batman and Robin went door to door terminating insurgents, while Superman found himself locked in combat with the obligatory metahuman champion such enclaves always seemed to attract. Their parents had pre-emptively deleted most superhero types, but there were always random happenings: some schlub gets bitten by a radioactive bug and the next thing you know Superman’s battling Mosquitoman across the skies of Minnesota.

Robin—grown tall and gangling by now, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders—opened another door to find the cottage occupied only by a small girl cowering in the corner, no more than eight, with a dirty face and huge, terrified eyes. He paused for a moment, lowering his gun, and stepped forward. The girl read something in his eyes that reassured her, for some of the fear went out of her face in the moment before a shot rang out behind Robin and she dropped in a welter of blood. Robin whirled to find Batman standing in the door, fury in every line of his body. He stepped forward and backhanded Robin once, hard, across the face. “What if I hadn’t just turned off the cameras?” he gritted. “What if your weakness had been transmitted to all of our enemies around the world? How _dare_ you risk all we’ve worked for that way?”

Robin felt blood trickling from his lip. “She was just a kid, she hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“She was associating with traitors and criminals and her fate must be tied to theirs. I can’t believe you would be so stupid after all this time!”

Robin wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. “If you believe that, you should have killed me in that alley when you met me! Tell me one difference between her and me, just one.”

“You’re alive. She’s dead.”

A long pause, as Robin stared at Batman. The anger and defiance seemed to drain out of him, leaving him tired and weary to the bone. “Obey or die,” he said softly, almost as if to himself.

Superman landed behind Batman, his form filling the door. He had apparently finished off the other metahuman. Batman whirled and stalked off through the settlement. Superman reached out and gently took the boy’s arm, steering him out of the cabin. “That doesn’t apply to you, Robin. Never you.” Once they were clear of the building, he set it ablaze with his heat vision. All around them, the buildings of the enclave were burning, turning the snowy ground beneath them to slush and sending trailers of flame into the sky. Superman sailed into the sky, leaving Robin to watch the cabin as it collapsed in on itself.

“Doesn’t it?” he whispered, before hurrying to catch up to Batman.

*  
The end came quickly and—for Bruce at least—unexpectedly. He let himself into his penthouse apartment after a late night of carousing with Selina to find Robin standing on the balcony railing, eighty-six floors above the ground. The boy balanced lightly and effortlessly on the balls of his feet, the wind blowing his hair into his eyes. He looked as if he had been waiting there all night and could wait for hours more.

Bruce froze. Then with an effort, he made his voice light. “Come down off there and stop trying to impress me with your acrobatic skill, boy.”

Robin’s face was calm, even peaceful. “I just wanted to say goodbye. Goodbye, and...and I’m sorry. Maybe in some other world, in some other time, maybe I could have been what you wanted. But not here.” He looked levelly at the other man. “I love you.”

Bruce stepped forward one step. Robin stepped backward one step.

He didn’t make a sound all the way down.

*  
Clark found Bruce some time later there, gripping the balcony railing and looking down to the ground below. He looked down as well, then gently pried Bruce’s hands away from the railing. It took him some effort. He smoothed Bruce’s palms, trying to ease the half-moons bitten deep into them. Bruce stared straight ahead for some time, breathing heavily. Then he slowly focused on Clark’s face. He straightened, squared his shoulders.

“He was weak,” said Batman. He walked away from the balcony and didn’t look back. 


	3. A Model Airplane and a Comic Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the AU of "Absolute Power," Clark meets Bruce for the first time

An eight-year old boy was lying on the floor, putting the last touches on a model airplane. A curl of glossy black hair fell into his bright blue eyes, and the tip of his tongue stuck out a bit as he concentrated on getting the propeller just right. Now and then his eyes strayed to the door. Today was the day, his parents had told him. Today was the day they were finally going to bring Clark’s brother home.

He had finished the model to his liking and was lying on his back, absent-mindedly swooping it about, when the door opened and he scrambled to his feet. His father, Cosmic King, came into the room behind a boy about Clark’s age. The boy’s face was very pale underneath dark, sleek hair. Clark grinned at him. The boy didn’t respond.

Clark’s father knelt down to look the other boy in the eye. “Bruce, this is your brother, Clark. You two have a great destiny together; together you will create a world with no war and no injustice, a world where evil is punished and the good do not suffer. I know that’s a lot to ask you to accept right now, but please trust me.” The other boy—Bruce—nodded, but didn’t say anything. After a moment, Cosmic King stood back up. He looked slightly uncomfortable. Why would such a grand, powerful person as his father be uncomfortable around two little boys? Clark wondered. It must be some grown-up thing.

After Cosmic King left the room, Bruce walked stiffly to the bunk bed on the other side—Clark had always had a bunk bed, with the top empty, waiting for his brother--and sat down on the bottom and looked at Clark, but his gray-blue eyes seemed to look right through him. Clark shuffled his feet awkwardly in the carpet. “Um, would you like to look at some comic books? I’ve got the latest Gray Ghost...Gray Ghost versus the Moon Men, it looks really cool.” The other boy blinked at him owlishly and said nothing. Clark felt himself blushing. He probably looked like a dummy. “Or, or, I just finished this plane today, it took me all week.” He grabbed his new model off the floor and held it out to the boy. “It’s a Vought F4U Corsair, it was built with the wings bent at an angle like this, isn’t it a beaut--” At this, Bruce grabbed the plane and smashed it against the wall, then began stomping it into fragments. “Hey! Hey! That’s my plane! Don’t do that!” Bruce whirled on him and grabbed him by the collar; the two boys went down in a heap, Clark fending off a flurry of blows. A fist connected with his nose and Clark yelped in pain, tears springing to his eyes. Shocked at the injustice of it all, he swung out and felt his blow land as well; Bruce gasped as if coming up from underwater and started to yell.

“My parents are dead! They’re dead! They died right in front of me, they got shot right in front of me and you want to give me a stupid, _stupid_ toy?” Bruce’s face was contorted with rage and pain and he was making harsh sobbing noises, but his eyes remained dry. Clark went limp and stared at him.

“They didn’t tell me.”

“What?”

“They didn’t tell me. That your parents died today. I’m sorry.”

Bruce blinked at him and some of the fury went out of his eyes, to be replaced by something Clark found harder to look at. His lip was cut; Clark pulled a slightly dirty handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to him. They sat next to each other on the bunk bed in silence for a moment.

“What _did_ they tell you, then?”

Clark closed his eyes and tilted his head back, reciting like a catechism. “I’m going to grow up to be strong and powerful and be able to fly and have superpowers, and you and me are going to make the world a good safe place.”

“Superpowers? Like Cosmic King’s?” Bruce was actively interested now. “What powers will I have?”

Clark looked uncomfortable. “Actually, um, you won’t have any superpowers. I get them because I was born on a planet with a different sun, and once I get enough sunlight I’ll start to have powers.”

“You’re an alien? A really truly alien from another world? You don’t look it.” Bruce leaned forward, fascinated, to examine Clark more closely, then drew back, his brows furrowing and the spark of anger coming back into his eyes. “So wait, if I have no powers, why am I here, anyway? Am I supposed to be your servant or something?”

“No! No!” Clark was legitimately horrified at the thought. “You’re my _brother,_ our parents say we have to do it together, we can’t make the world perfect without each other.”

“Why’s that?”

“They say I have the power but you have the will, and together we have the will to power.”

Bruce frowned. “I’m not sure I understand that.”

Clark thought of how he felt when he had looked into Bruce’s eyes earlier. “I think I’m starting to understand. I think we have to be together because you remind me how awful it is when people you care about suffer, so I’ll always want to stop it. Without you maybe I won’t remember how important that is. You give me the reason to fight. So really you’re more important than I am.”

Bruce still seemed unconvinced. “If I’m going to help you without superpowers, I’m going to have to get really good at everything.” The thought seemed to cheer him up somehow. He pondered the implications of this for some time. Then he shook himself all over like a puppy and turned to Clark, his face moderately close to an actual young boy’s face.

“Did you say you had some Gray Ghost comics? He’s my favorite.”

Late that night, Clark was awoken by the sound of sobbing from the bunk above him. For a while he lay there, irresolute, then swung himself up to the top bunk. He rather expected to be rebuffed and felt a pang of apprehension when Bruce grabbed him by the collar of his plaid flannel pajamas, but the other boy buried his face in Clark’s shoulder, choking sobs wracking his body. Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce and held him until the weeping evened out into deep breaths of exhausted sleep. He almost imagined he could hear Bruce’s heartbeat, different from everyone else’s heartbeat in the world. He fell asleep trying to memorize it.

A few days later, Clark entered the room to find his model airplane sitting on his desk. It had been carefully salvaged from the trash and painstakingly pieced back together, every fragment glued back perfectly. You could hardly tell it had been broken. Clark moved it through the air, admiring it.

They were going to make a great team.  



	4. Grass, Wind, Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the AU of "Absolute Power," Clark and Bruce share a kiss, some groping and a lot of banter.

Two teen-agers were walking across the Mongolian steppes. Their vehicle had broken down en route to a parley with Ra’s al-Ghul. Batman had wanted to call their parents for a lift, but Superman had talked him out of it. “We’re only a half day’s walk from the rendezvous point—this way we can keep him waiting a while, make the point that he has to wait on us.” Put that way, Bruce had to admit it made some tactical sense, but he suspected that wasn’t why Clark wanted to walk. He glared across the endless sea of grass, rippling in waves in the wind, and scowled at Clark’s smiling face.

“You like this.”

“What?”

“All this...this... _openness.”_ Batman waved an annoyed hand at the golden vistas stretching out around them.

“Hm. I guess I do.” Superman stretched his arms out expansively. “”It just feels good to be out in the open, doesn’t it?”

“No.” Without looking, he could feel Clark grinning at him, like the warm sunshine on the back of his neck. It annoyed him further. “If you could fly, you know, we could be there by now.”

He felt Clark’s smile fade in intensity somewhat. Superman hated to be reminded that flying—the power he yearned for the most—had not manifested yet. “That cowl has got to be pretty hot in the sun. You could remove it for now. There’s nobody that needs scaring for miles.”

Bruce scowled, but pulled off the cowl. Clark reached out and tousled his hair, slightly damp with sweat. “See, doesn’t that feel better?” Bruce batted the hand away and did his best menacing growl; the other man just laughed. They tramped on in companionable silence. Bruce was mulling over a mystery: he knew Clark well enough to know that he would insist on rumpling his hair when he removed the cowl, and he hated having his personal space invaded. So why had he done it? Well, besides the fact that the breeze felt good. That didn’t seem to be reason enough to risk having Clark’s fingers running through his hair like that. Now his scalp tingled. This was also annoying.

After a while Superman decided it was time to sit and have a drink from their canteens. They both could have kept going, of course, but Clark didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get there. Batman lay down on the ground and stared at the placidly blue sky. Blades of grass wavered in and out of his vision.

“Our parents want you to meet al-Ghul’s daughter, you know. They think you two would make a good...alliance.”

Bruce had reached the same conclusion some time ago. It didn’t seem to be worth commenting on at this point, so he merely made a non-committal sound.

“They introduced me to a girl just before we left. I...” Clark hesitated. “I felt the _click_ when I met her.”

The _click_ was their word for when they met someone and felt a strong connection right away. They had decided that it probably meant that such people were people they had a strong relationship with in the alternate world of the Age of Heroes.

They never spoke about this to their parents. They didn’t often speak of it between themselves.

They had killed a lot of those people.

The grass smelled sweet and sunny. Bruce closed his eyes for a second. Opened them. “That’s good. You need someone to take care of you.”

“She’s great. There’s just one problem.”

“Yes?”

“I need _you_. I want _you.”_

The sky above Bruce was so blue, and so endless. You could almost feel like you were falling into it, looking up. “That would tend to be a problem, I agree,” he said rather distantly. He could feel his pulse roaring in his temples.

After a while Clark sighed. “OK. I won’t mention it again, I promise.” Superman stepped away from him.

Batman rolled to his feet as if snapping out of a blow and found himself in a defensive crouch. _“Coward!”_ he snarled, but his voice sounded young and high in his own ears. “Giving up without a fight!”

Clark whirled to face him, looking absurdly surprised. For a moment Bruce thought they might come to blows. Clark stretched out a hand toward him, and Bruce moved back. “Don’t touch me,” he said reflexively.

Superman pondered this statement for a time, staring at Bruce’s face. “I can’t kiss you without touching you,” he stated gravely.

That made a certain logical sense. “Oh. Well. OK then.”

Clark reached out very slowly and brushed Bruce’s lower lip with his thumb. Bruce willed his face to stillness; it was bad enough that Superman could hear his heartbeat speed to dangerous levels without giving him the satisfaction of showing it on his face. Clark didn’t smile, exactly, but something around the corners of his mouth made clear that he was satisfied with Bruce’s reaction anyway. Long, capable fingers slid along the line of his jaw and brushed the back of his neck, with only the tiniest suggestion of a pull. Clark looked like he could wait all day there, simply letting Bruce’s hair slip through his fingers.

Batman was not a patient man.

Superman suddenly found himself flat on his back in the grass, Batman’s full weight pressed against the length of his body. Bruce allowed himself a brief, victorious “Ha!” before leaning in to capture Clark’s lips. He discovered himself almost dizzy as Clark’s mouth yielded entirely to his questing tongue, but before he could really luxuriate in the moment he found his own mouth being deliciously invaded. A pitched and extremely pleasant battle followed, ending in a draw as Clark pulled away to lick the hollow of Bruce’s throat. Bruce ran his hands along the lines of the perfect Kryptonian body, marveling at the sleek muscles under the silky, deceptively delicate-feeling cloth. How must it feel to go about so unarmored all the time? For example, at the moment that costume was doing nothing at all to hide the fact of Superman’s physical arousal, hard and insistent, trapped between their bodies. Bruce was momentarily grateful for his own armor that kept him from such embarrassing revelations.

Then Superman’s tongue was in his ear, his breath warm and intimate, and Bruce was biting down hard on any sound, and the armor was quickly becoming more an annoyance than a protection. But he was not going to make the first move to shed it, and Clark was in no hurry at all, languorously reclaiming his mouth and running his hands down Bruce’s back with delicate, feathery strokes. Bruce uncharacteristically decided to simply live in the moment, and lost himself in exploring the amazing textures of Clark’s lips and tongue for some time.

After a while, he surfaced enough to become aware of his surroundings—and froze. “Clark,” he murmured, “You’re floating.” About fifty feet below the two, the steppes rippled in the wind. There was a somewhat undignified scrambling and Bruce found himself perpendicular to the ground, gripping Clark’s arms, still hovering in mid-air. He made a sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh. “Come on, Clark, a first kiss that sends you soaring? That’s pathetically cliché.”

Superman looked hurt. “I can’t help it that I’m a cliché.”

“I seem to be relatively weightless while you’re holding on to me. That’s interesting. Do you know how to get down?”

Clark’s eyes focused inward. Bruce watched him, enjoying his sudden new freedom to stare at the other man as much as he liked. That wasn’t going to get old anytime soon.

They drifted downwards until their feet touched the ground again. Superman stepped away from him, and Batman let him go with a pang of reluctance.

“Let me test this out.” Bending his knees, arms stretched above his head—Bruce felt the _click_ again, like a circuit in his head—Superman launched himself into the sky like a burst of pure joy. He swept into a huge loop, then a barrel roll, sheer exuberance in every line of his body. Bruce watched with something approaching awe, which he tamped down mercilessly. Still，it was clear that the sky was where the Kryptonian _belonged._

He was so busy watching Superman that he didn’t realize until it was too late that Clark was heading straight for him at a startling speed, skimming along the sea of grass. He half-expected the impact would drive the air out of his lungs, but instead Superman picked him up with infinite delicacy and no slackening of speed, swooping up in a dizzying arc. At the top of the arc he let gravity start pulling them back, breaking the free-fall halfway down and leaving Bruce’s stomach somewhere behind. The wind whistled in his ears and Clark was laughing with delight, and Clark’s hands were definitely moving down Bruce’s hips in ways both amazing and alarming.

They had covered miles of steppes—in the opposite direction from where the rendezvous was, Batman noted—and were coming to a mountain range with a cloud bank draped over it. Superman’s speed lessened and he coasted into the cloud, rolling lazily over until Batman was resting atop him again. Tiny beads of moisture clung to his eyelashes and spangled his black hair; he looked entirely pleased with himself. “A little privacy,” he murmured, tangling his hands in Bruce’s hair again and pulling him close for another breathtaking kiss. Tendrils of mist curled all around them like silver curtains, and even though he knew they were dangerously high above the ground, Bruce found himself lost in the wonder of exploring Clark’s body again. This time it was his turn to slide his hands down the length of the other man’s back, coming finally to a stop and pulling Clark’s groin against him with delicious, rough friction. Clark arched his back and closed his eyes, crying, “God, Bruce, oh God, yes,” and the sight of his abandoned face set all of Bruce’s nerve endings aflame. He needed this, he had needed this for so long and had denied it for so long and now here it was underneath his hands, silky and warm and powerful and everything he had always needed it to be.

He eventually balked, however, at the technical difficulties of actually removing clothing while sitting in a cloud. “We ought to be getting to the rendezvous,” he said cautiously.

Clark growled and nipped gently at his throat. “I’m not going anywhere until you say you want me.”

“Anyone could see that at the moment, Clark.” Bruce tried to keep his voice light. Superman frowned at him. Strong hands stroked the inside of his thighs, teasing upward and around key pieces of armor.

“I want to hear you say it. And mean it.” The hands were warm and coaxing and very sure of themselves. “Say it, or by God, your armor is going to be scattered all over Mongolia and I’ll have you right here and now, Bruce.”

“I want you,” Bruce said, to make him stop, but then after he had said it once he couldn’t seem to stop saying it again and again, and then there was a flash of surprise in those turquoise eyes, and Bruce was suddenly sure he had just said “I want you to fuck me.” Which was not something he had meant to say at all. Clark’s expression wavered somewhere between startled and smug and settled into pleased.

“OK, that’s a promise,” he breathed in Bruce’s ear. Their feet touched onto solid ground, out in the sunny, open steppes again, and Batman fell back on making a random snarling noise to cover the shivers Superman’s voice sent up his spine. The Kryptonian just smiled. “Al-Ghul can throw his daughter at you all he wants from here on in,” he said. “You’re _mine,_ now.”

Batman pulled his cowl roughly over his head. He felt rather that he had surrendered too much in this exchange, and that made his voice harsh. “What, _you’re_ not _mine_ now?”

“ _’Now?’_ Oh, Bruce.” Clark’s voice was infinitely warm and affectionate, like sunlight and open sky all around him. “I’ve _always_ been yours.”


	5. January:  Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark Kent spends some time with playboy millionaire Bruce Wayne and finds it...unsettling. Oh, and he gets stabbed.

_”To understand that man in the cape who could fly—all I needed to know was Clark.” (“A Superman for All Seasons,” Jeph Loeb)_

Clark Kent adjusted his rather crooked tie—making it more crooked—and walked into the glittering ballroom. Crowds of Metropolis’s finest thronged around him, chattering and laughing. A string quartet played in a corner. Waves of noise and activity surged around him, making it impossible to locate the person he was looking for. Once he would have been able to pick that heartbeat out from the crowd without even thinking. He wondered, as he had wondered so many times in the last week, when his powers would come back. “When,” not “if.” When.

Eventually he caught sight of his target, in the center of a group of laughing people: Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. He was wearing a tuxedo and holding a glass of champagne, gesturing with a graceful hand while telling a story that had the sparkling people around him in stitches. His face was carefree and perhaps a bit simple; an easy smile came and went across it. He looked as if he was having the time of his life. One of the laughing men reached out and tousled Bruce’s hair the way you might an adorable puppy, condescending and friendly. Not a flicker of resentment, not a trace of irritation showed on Bruce’s face, as he gave an “aw shucks” shrug and grinned sheepishly. A hand that could dislocate a shoulder or disarm a bomb draped lazily across one giggling woman’s shoulder, and he whispered something into her hair that made her blush.

Clark found himself frankly staring. If he didn’t know better, he never would have guessed that this pretty, vapid... _boy_ was one of the most dangerous men in the world.

A man came up to Bruce and whispered to him, tugging on his arm a bit. Bruce disengaged from his crowd of admirers and walked to the dais、taking up a microphone. His eyes scanned the audience, passing over Clark without a hint of recognition. He started to speak and the microphone squealed feedback. Everyone laughed, and the Wayne scion pulled a comic grimace before continuing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, some of you may be wondering why a Gotham boy is here in Metropolis, raising money. I’m not very good at making speeches...” He tilted his head self-deprecatingly and ran a hand over the back of his head in embarrassment, “...but Superboy did more than just save Metropolis; with his heroic actions he saved all of us. If it had not been for Superboy’s sacrifice, this entire world would have ceased to exist, and all that we love about it—all of its life, all of its laughter--would have perished in the dark and the void.” Bruce’s light, pleasant voice had darkened just a shade, just enough to evoke Batman’s voice for Clark, who found tears suddenly stinging his eyes. He bowed his head to better listen to his friend’s voice. “Superboy was never an idealist, and he didn’t die for an idea, he didn’t die for something abstract like truth or justice. He died for people. He died saving the people he loved, and all the people of this world. That’s something we can all learn from Superboy: that as powerful as ideas are, in the end what matters are the people we love.” Bruce paused and cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted back up into the light, clear register of his persona. “So I mean, I figured, gosh, the least I could do was try to raise money for a statue to honor him, right? And folks, any money we raise in excess tonight will go toward Metropolis hospitals, to help children with long-term injuries from the recent conflicts, so please do give generously!”

The room filled with warm applause, and Bruce Wayne grinned, made a small, self-mocking bow, and stepped down. Before he could find his way back to a clump of people, Clark intercepted him, holding out his hand. “Thank you for your words tonight, Mr. Wayne,” he said as they shook hands cordially.

Bruce smiled pleasantly at him. “It was the least I could do, Mister...?” He raised his eyebrows and waited for Clark to finish the sentence, the very image of a friendly but somewhat bored rich boy meeting a rather rumpled stranger.

Clark couldn’t help smiling just a bit. “Kent. Clark Kent. I work at the Daily Planet.”

“Ah! One of my employees, then.” Just the barest edge of a wolfish smile touched Bruce’s lips, but Clark immediately felt more comfortable. “I hope you’re enjoying working for me?”

Clark allowed his voice to become just the slightest bit ironic. “It’s an honor, sir.” He met Bruce’s steel-gray eyes steadily. “Seriously, thank you for what you said in your speech. I…I did a lot of stories on Superboy and I felt I knew him well. He was a...a good kid.” He swallowed hard.

Bruce could probably tell he was having a hard time with the persona, because he reached out and gripped Clark’s shoulder tightly, steering him slightly toward a large set of French doors. His voice remained careless and callow. “You knew him personally? Wow, I bet you have some amazing stories about him. Would you tell me a few in return for my work here tonight?” As Clark nodded wordlessly, he found himself guided out onto an empty marble balcony. The noise from the crowd faded a bit behind them, to his relief. The skyline of Metropolis stretched out in front of them like jewels. He put his hands on the cool white rail of the balcony to compose himself. It was warm for January today, but breeze was still cool enough to be bracing and to dry his eyes.

“How are you doing?” Batman’s voice came from beside him. He looked over and was oddly startled to find the handsome face of Bruce Wayne looking back at him. They so rarely interacted out of costume, he hardly knew what Batman actually looked like. Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he looked more closely, and he reached out suddenly to brush his fingers across a small scab on Clark’s cheekbone. “What’s this?”

“It’s no big deal. I cut myself shaving. I find myself out of practice.”

“You cut yourself. Shaving.” Clark had no idea why this information seemed so serious to Bruce; Batman knew full well Superman had come out of the latest crisis with no powers. Bruce’s fingers briefly touched three other spots on Clark’s jaw. “You also missed a few spots, I see. You _are_ out of practice.”

Clark flushed, discomfited by the continuing confusing spectacle of Batman’s voice coming from that blandly good-looking face. Not to mention getting grooming advice from either Batman _or_ Bruce Wayne. He must be a sight, too; Bruce looked slightly nauseated just looking at him. As Bruce pulled his hand back, Clark found himself amazed at how soft that ungloved hand had been. Of course, a billionaire playboy doesn’t have the hands of a fighter; Bruce must spend a lot of time making sure his hands didn’t become calloused. Seeing Batman without his mask, without his gloves and armor...it was very disorienting. Clark wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, but he was suddenly sure that he had liked having Bruce Wayne’s strangely gentle hands on his jawline. But Bruce had moved back a couple of steps and turned to look out over Metropolis, away from Clark, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

“If it’s my turn to be serious, Kon died saving Dick. I’ll always owe him more than I can ever repay. If Dick had died...” Bruce’s voice trailed off and he studied the stars for a while, his profile silhouetted against the lights of Metropolis. “I meant every word of that speech. That the people we love are more important than any ideal. I think I’ve forgotten that sometimes.” He turned back to Clark, met his eyes squarely. “I’m sorry for that.” He was all Batman about the mouth and chin as he said it, and Clark knew how hard such admissions came to the man. Without really thinking about it, he reached out and clapped Bruce on the shoulder.

“We all forget it sometimes. We all get reminded of it, too.” For a long moment they stood there, Clark’s hand resting on Bruce’s shoulder, Bruce gazing gravely at him. Clark found himself wondering if Bruce kept his hair as soft as his hands. It looked very soft, with just the slightest curl in it. He finally managed to drop his hand and back away a step; Bruce looked slightly relieved and Clark kicked himself mentally—what was _wrong_ with him tonight? “Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer or the ladies will tear me apart for monopolizing you!” Bruce rolled his eyes and made a very Batman-esque snorting sound, but turned back toward the doors that led into the ballroom.

They went through the doors together and indeed, an assortment of women started bearing down on Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. As they gathered around the skittish-looking Bruce, however, a commotion broke out near the doors to the kitchen. A scruffy man with a wild, rolling look to his eye had burst into the room, brandishing a carving knife. Raving madly--something about Superboy being an agent of the Devil—he grabbed an elderly lady and raised the knife above his head.

Clark was already moving. The only reason he got there first, he realized later, was that Bruce had gotten hemmed in by admirers, putting him a second behind. The scuffle happened so fast Clark couldn’t exactly recreate it later. He suspected part of the problem had been that he wasn’t used to his de-powered reflexes yet. He probably should have been able to take down a crazy homeless guy without getting hurt. But as it was, he and the knife-wielder went down in a heap together and he felt the blade run into his shoulder with a sharp coldness. Once, then twice.

He saw his assailant picked up bodily and tossed toward two approaching security guards, and then Bruce was kneeling beside him, his steady hands removing Clark's shirt and starting to bind the wound with it. The crowd ebbed and flowed around the two of them, the chatter shaded with horror. Clark heard someone calling 911. The wound started to hurt, and it hurt a lot more than he had expected it to, considering he had just recently flown through a sun while being pummeled by one of the strongest beings in the universe. To distract himself, he watched Bruce's calm, aristocratic face, eyes narrowed with concentration as he staunched the bleeding and bound the wound. If Bruce was so calm, it couldn't be that bad, right? He clung to Bruce's blue eyes like a lifeline, as the rest of the world faded in and out around him. Eventually Bruce turned from Clark's shoulder and looked into Clark's eyes, with a small smile that didn't seem to be either Batman's or the playboy's. He wiped his hands on the tuxedo--Clark could see dark smears left behind--and laid one on Clark's forehead, like a mother checking a child's temperature. "You'll be ok, Clark. The ambulance is on its way."

As they loaded Clark onto the stretcher, he found that he was holding Bruce's hand. The ambulance drivers started to explain that Bruce wasn't allowed in the ambulance, but Bruce cut them off. "This is my--this is my _employee_ , and I'll damn well be going to the hospital with him! I am _not_ staying behind!" Bruce's voice was shaking now, and he was doing a credible impression of a man close to blind, unreasoning panic. Even through the haze of pain and shock, Clark couldn't help but smile to himself, impressed by Bruce's ability to stay in-character no matter what the situation. “What’ll it take to let me go with him, huh, you ghouls?” Bruce fumbled with a wallet, his hands trembling, and hundred-dollar bills fluttered down around him. Clark began to think Bruce was actually acting a little too frantic to be believable, but the ambulance drivers apparently decided to take pity on the billionaire and let him come along. Bruce held tightly to his hand and watched his face intently as they made their way to the hospital. The lights of Metropolis flickered through the back of the ambulance in bands of brightness and shadow, sometimes lighting up Bruce’s chiseled features, sometimes plunging them into a darkness from which only his eyes gleamed. Clark watched the play of light and shadows across Bruce’s face, feeling a bit unmoored from reality.

At the hospital, they gave Clark shots of something that blurred the edges of the world even further. From a great distance he heard the doctor telling Bruce that if the knife had been even a few inches lower he might never have made it to the hospital, and even as it was Bruce’s quick first aid had probably saved him. He heard Bruce’s pleasant, clear tenor explaining that golly, doc, he hardly did anything, the security guards had mostly patched Mr. Kent up anyway. Bruce saying “Golly” almost made him laugh, but when he started to chuckle the room slid away from him for a while.

He came to in a quiet room—a private hospital room, Bruce must have pulled some strings again. The very palest of early morning light was coming through the windows. Clark thought suddenly of Lois; he assumed Bruce had called her, although she was out of the country at the moment and couldn’t be back anytime very soon.

The door soon opened and Bruce and a doctor came in. Bruce was looking decidedly scruffier than he had a few hours ago. The doctor introduced herself and explained to Clark that his injuries had been fairly severe but that the quick actions of Mr. Wayne and the guards meant that he would probably be able to recover quite quickly. “You owe your boss here your life, Mr. Kent,” she said seriously.

“I can’t ever express my gratitude enough, Mr. Wayne.”

“Please, call me Bruce.” His eyes glinted irony, too tired to hide it completely. The doctor, absorbed in looking at Clark’s x-rays, missed it entirely.

“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Kent,” she said, looking at her clipboard. “You’re in such good condition that you should recover with few ill effects. And don’t think I don’t appreciate your brave actions last night, but really, you should be more cautious. You’re not Superman, you know.”

Clark was suddenly glad she was not looking at him. He wished Bruce hadn’t been. “I know.” He closed his eyes. “I know.”

After the doctor left, Bruce came closer to the bed and looked down at him, his face unreadable. Clark felt suddenly very tired, and his shoulder hurt. The drugs gave everything a strange, hyper-real edge that was very difficult to process. “Go ahead and say it, you know you want to. Tell me that I have to remember I’m not a hero anymore.”

Bruce reached out and smoothed Clark’s hair back from his forehead. Then his hand slipped a little lower, covering Clark’s eyes briefly. Later, Clark would wonder if the painkillers had made him imagine it, the gentlest brushing of lips on his for just a moment. But he knew that he had heard exactly what Bruce said, his voice soft but emphatic, just before he turned and left the room.

 _“Never.”_

* * *

By the time they met in Gotham City to see Bruce and the boys off on their trip to Europe, Clark was fairly certain he had hallucinated the...what he thought he had felt. Bruce was his usual friendly but guarded self, commenting that Clark’s shoulder seemed to be healing nicely, asking after Lois. The boys were in high spirits and Dick seemed to be healing well himself.

When the time came to board the ship, Tim hugged Clark with enthusiasm and then a muttered apology for jostling his shoulder. Dick embraced him warmly and whispered, “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.” As they raced up the gangplank, Bruce reached out and shook Clark’s hand. Clark felt a pang of disappointment—he had been wondering if having Bruce’s body pressed up against him, Bruce’s arms around him, however briefly, might help him figure out how much he was just imagining. But he smiled warmly, covering the handshake with his other hand.

“Will you be coming back to the States at all in the next year?”

“Perhaps. If there’s reason for me to.”

“Well, you know I’d always love to see you. And I can’t just fly out to where you are any more.” The handshake had now passed the time limit for manly comfort, but Clark held on just a shade longer before letting go. Bruce didn’t prolong it more. But he hadn’t pulled away, either.

“Be well, Clark.” And then Bruce was turning away, and walking away, and Clark was having a hard time breathing, somehow. Bruce, Dick, and Tim stood at the railing, the boys waving and grinning, as the ship set sail. Bruce simply stood, not smiling, not moving, looking at Clark as the distance between them widened.

Clark stood on the dock until the ship disappeared over the horizon. A cold wind blew toward the ocean, pushing at him, but he could no longer fly with it.


	6. A Locked Door and an Open Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the AU of "Absolute Power." Superman and Batman are 16. This follows directly from "Grass, Wind, Clouds."

Superman was locked in a dark cell. He was alone. Around his neck was locked a collar of green metal, attached to the wall with links of green chain. The collar burned like cold fire、shattering his mind into fragments of pain. His parents had told him about this metal, but they had promised him that they had destroyed every bit of it in the world for their precious son.

Where had Ra’s al-Ghul gotten his hands on Kryptonite?

And what had he done with—what was he _doing to_ —Bruce?

Superman found himself on his knees, straining at the collar to reach the door. He could almost hear it sizzling against his neck, blistering his skin with radiation, but it didn’t yield. Choking like an attack dog on a leash, Clark sagged to lie on the ground, the chain still drawn as taut as possible.

Alone in the dark.

He had to distract himself from the pain of the collar and from the worse pain of imagining Bruce suffering at al-Ghul’s sadistic hands. He remembered the feel of the wind on his face as he had flown through the sky for the first time, the look on Bruce’s face just before they had kissed—was it only a few hours ago? He had thought to himself then that he hadn’t known it was possible to feel so free, so happy. The way Bruce had bit his lip to keep from making any noise as Clark had caressed him, the bitten lip driving Clark more mad than any sound he could possibly have made. The intoxicating rush of knowing, _knowing_ at the deepest level possible, that nothing could ever separate the two of them. Why had he ever let Bruce talk him into leaving the clouds and going to that damn rendezvous?

 _And what was Ra’s al-Ghul doing to him right now?_

He was alone in the dark for a long time. He wasn’t sure how long the Kryptonite would take to kill him, but he began to wonder if he would long to die before it got around to it. Eventually the door swung open and two guards entered, dragging Batman in with them. Batman’s cowl was half ripped off, leaving his face and hair exposed on one side. Blood streaked his face and matted his hair. His suit was also shredded and bloody, a pattern of bruises, gashes, and burns filigreed on his arms and torso. Behind Bruce and the guards, an elegant man in green robes smiled sardonically at Superman from the doorway.

Clark heard a roaring in his ears and his vision darkened as he lunged at al-Ghul with all his might, coming up short on the Kryptonite chain with a hideous jolt. Gasping for breath, he snarled at al-Ghul and his guards, all three of whom stayed a prudent distance from the enraged Kryptonian as they shackled Batman to a far wall. Damnit, he couldn’t even concentrate enough to use his heat vision with this collar on. “What do you want from us?”

Al-Ghul’s lips curled contemptuously. “From you two little boys? Nothing at all.” He nudged Batman’s prone body delicately with a slippered foot. “Your masters should have respected me enough to parlay with me directly, not send their child-puppets to mock me.”

“Our mast—our _parents_?” Superman choked with outrage, clenching his fists. “Batman and I are no one’s puppets, Ra’s, and you will _die_ for your insolence.”

“Your _parents_ ”—the word dripped scorn—“may plan to set you up as the boy-kings of this world, but I know that the real ultimate power will always reside with them in their fortress in the sky. Which is why I’ve used you two to send a message to them: an offer to treat me as their equal, not their vassal. I hope that they’ll consider it.” With that, al-Ghul swept out of the cell. The door clanged shut behind him.

In the dark again. But not alone.

Superman stretched himself as far on his Kryptonite leash as he could, but he couldn’t reach Batman on the far side of the room. His fingers scrabbling at the earth of the floor still fell far short of Bruce’s unmoving form. He strained at the collar until blood thundered in his ears and he almost missed Bruce’s low voice.

“Don’t...hurt yourself any more, you big...dummy.”

Clark was so relieved to hear Bruce’s voice that he almost laughed out loud at the childhood insult. In the dim light he saw Batman stir and move toward him. "I can't reach you," he admitted. Batman stretched out his arm to its fullest length, which was just enough for their fingertips to touch.

For the moment, it was enough.

Clark didn't think about anything for a while, focusing every bit of his concentration on that tiny point of contact between them, like a spark in the darkness. It kept the pain from the Kryptonite at bay. But when Bruce spoke again, he realized the other man had been analyzing their situation carefully. "I haven't been able to contact our mother. I suspect he has some kind of force field that can block her telepathy. He's been planning this for some time. But he's made one fatal mistake." Batman pulled away from Clark, fumbled with the heel of one of his boots. "He's underestimated us." Clark saw the lockpick gleam in Bruce's hands, and the feral flash of Bruce's smile. "He won't get a second chance."

Batman was free in moments and across the room at Superman's side, removing his chains with deft fingers. He threw the collar into a corner with ferocity and dragged Clark as far away from the green metal as possible. His fingers traced the blisters on Clark's neck, and then he bowed his head to brush his lips across the burns. He made a throttled sound deep in his throat, and Clark heard al-Ghul's death in that sound, more certain than in any of the threats Superman had made. Then Bruce was kissing him, fierce and possessive; Clark tasted blood on Bruce’s cut lips, but the other boy seemed oblivious to what must have been painful. Bruce grabbed Clark’s hands and pulled them to his torso through the ribbons of his costume, pressing them harder against him when Clark tried to keep his caresses gentle. “I thought about you, about flying with you,” he whispered hoarsely, “And I thought about what I was going to do to you when we got out of here and none of what they did could hurt me, _none of it could touch me,_ because I knew you were thinking about me too, Clark.” His hands bunched in Superman’s cape, pulling Clark roughly against him, clinging to him like a drowning man. Clark gave up any pretense at being gentle with him, since he seemed beyond pain at the moment, and instead dedicated himself to caressing and kissing every bruise and burn as if the sheer force and intensity of his attention could heal his partner.

Despite their injuries, they might have managed to make love right there on the dank dungeon floor if a hapless guard had not glanced in the cell window and noticed the empty Kryptonite collar in the corner. Yelling something, he swung the door open and charged in, only to be cut immediately in two by a ray of heat vision. The other guards scattered in a panic, and the alarm started to go up through the dungeon.

Batman whirled on Superman. “ _I_ needed to kill him. _They hurt you_. I needed him to _suffer_.”

Superman smiled. “I promise you, the next one will.” He gestured toward the open door and the frantic yelling beyond. “After you.”

* * *

They arrived in al-Ghul’s main hall at about the same time their parents—frantic from searching for them, exhausted from fighting—did. Clark realized later that he and Batman must have been something of a sight, striding into the great hall lit by smoky red fires and the sickly green glow of a Lazarus Pit, Batman’s costume torn and shredded, both of them covered with blood. They were dragging behind them the bodies of al-Ghul and the dark-haired girl who had fought loyally at his side to the bitter end. Superman saw respect flash across all three faces, combined, oddly enough, with a hint of fear. How could they ever fear their own sons, after all they had done for Clark and Bruce? But the fear vanished quickly and Saturn Queen ran forward to embrace Superman, who surprised and delighted her by spiraling up toward the high ceiling. “Flight! Oh Clark, how wonderful for you!”

Cosmic King approached Batman, frowning in concern at his injuries. Batman shook off his first gentle touch gruffly, but then submitted to the examination. Lightning Lord wrapped his arms around both Saturn Queen and Superman as they returned to the ground. “My sons, my sons, thank all the gods you’re all right. Your mother could feel your pain, but couldn’t get any thoughts through the barrier...We’ve been going mad with worry.”

“He had Kryptonite,” snarled Batman. “You said it was all destroyed.”

Shock and horror on each face. “We thought we had,” said Lightning Lord. “But there’s a lot of it, and more comes—“

“You should have tried harder.” Batman turned his back on his family and walked off a few paces, the muscles of his back rigid under the shreds of his cape.

Superman hurried to his side and put an arm around him, whispering, “I’m ok, Bruce. It’s alright, we’ll find the rest and get rid of it, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Eventually Batman turned and walked back to their parents, and they all tried to pretend that moment of tension hadn’t happened. Superman nudged al-Ghul’s body contemptuously with a foot. “He called us your _puppets,_ ” he said incredulously.

They all laughed, Saturn Queen tossing back her coppery hair and throwing her arms around Superman again. “Oh dear, Clark, it’s inevitable that people are going to think things like that, I suppose. You mustn’t let it bother you. After all, they can’t understand what it means to truly be a family.”

“That Lazarus Pit will revive them if they’re put in it,” Batman noted. “We have to find some way to make sure no one can ever do that.”

“That’s simple,” grinned Superman. He slung both bodies over his shoulders. “I’ll be right back.” He leapt up and disappeared through a crack in the ceiling. Batman watched him fly away, his gaze hungry, then looked over and saw his parents watching him with smiles ranging from knowing to delighted. He gathered up the tattered remnants of his cape and his pride and pretended to be collecting evidence. About twenty minutes later Superman returned empty-handed. “Dropped them in the sun. They won’t be coming back from that, I’m pretty sure.” He dusted his hands off and smiled at his family. “Shall we go home? I can carry Bruce.” Batman rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be gathered up in Superman’s arms. He might even have gotten a little closer to Clark than was strictly necessary. Not in any way one could call “snuggling,” of course.

* * *

Clark was lying in bed—the bottom bunk of their shared bunk bed, where they’d slept for the last six years. Above him Bruce’s breathing was steady and even. Their parents had fussed over them an impossibly long time, and by the time Clark finished briefing them about the effects of the Kryptonite, Bruce had slipped away to bed already. Clark laid on his back and stared up at the bunk above him. Bruce’s breathing and heartbeat indicated he wasn’t exactly asleep, but he didn’t want to wake him if he were drifting off—

“Clark.” Bruce’s voice floated out of the darkness, pitched almost Batman-low.

“Mmm?”

“Why are you still down there instead of up here?”

Clark didn’t need a second prompt and in moments both boys were tangled up in the top bunk. “I think we’re going to need a bigger bed,” laughed Clark.

“No, no, this is cozy—aggh, get your elbow out of my ribs, you big—oh,” Bruce broke off as Clark discovered to his delight that Bruce was wearing silk pajamas and began to explore more thoroughly. Bruce reciprocated. “Flannel, flannel, why is it always flannel with you. Stupid cuddly boy scout pajamas...mmmm.” Bruce was surprisingly talkative; Clark managed to quiet him down by kissing him thoroughly, although the other boy still mumbled half-coherent things into his mouth from time to time. After a long bout of what was somewhere between wrestling and foreplay, Clark found himself with Bruce draped across him, his face flushed and eyes bright, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Do you remember the first night I was here, and you came up to my bunk?”

“I was afraid you were going to hit me again.”

“I think I fell in love with you that night.” Bruce’s tone was light and teasing, but Clark stared at him, speechless. Bruce grinned a little wryly and put his fingers across Clark’s lips. “What, too serious for you? Forget I said it.”

Clark bit Bruce’s fingers gently, sucking at them until Bruce closed his eyes and shivered. “Never,” he murmured around a mouthful of finger, then transferred his attention to the Bruce’s palms and wrists, covering them with kisses. “How could I ever forget you saying that?”

“You’ll...you’ll probably never let me live it down, either,” said Bruce a little breathlessly. Clark was busily removing his pajama top and applying his tongue to Bruce’s chest, which seemed to leave him relatively at a loss for words. He started to work his way down Bruce’s chest methodically, determinedly, and agonizingly slowly, until the other boy suddenly swung himself out of his bed with a fluid motion and went to the full-length window.

He threw it open so the night breeze came into the room, the curtains billowing around him, and turned back to face Clark, still lying on the top bunk. His black silk pajama bottoms blew against his legs, his dark hair fell around his face. He held out his hand, a small smile on his face. “Let’s fly,” he said.

Clark went to him.

They flew.


	7. February:  Wish You Were Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in canon, Bruce writes some postcards as he travels during his year off. This follows "December: Hero" (not surprisingly). Bruce remembers an AU version of their life when they were lovers, but Clark does not.

Bruce Wayne sits at a writing desk in the luxury suite of one of the best hotels in Monte Carlo, writing a postcard. He stares at the blank rectangle of paper for about an hour before touching pen to paper.

 **Feb 1. Hotel le Metropole, Monte Carlo.** The front of the postcard is of a glittering casino. _”Dearest Clark”—Oh good Lord, no. “Dear Clark”—not that, either. Keep it light. I shouldn’t even be writing you at all. Why am I writing you?_ **Hey pal, how’s life in the big city?**

 _I miss you. God, I miss you._ **Monaco is great fun.** _I keep thinking of your face as the ship pulled away and left you on the dock. You looked like a puppy someone had kicked. I hate when you look at me like that. I always did. Like that time at your eleventh birthday party...no. Stop it, Bruce. Don’t think about that world. Don’t think about it or you’ll be back in Metropolis next week._

 **Tim’s a little bored, but Dick’s already managed to lose quite a bit at the baccarat table...and with the ladies. I guess boys will be boys.** The boys are currently sprawled out on the rug, their dark heads almost touching. Dick is teaching Tim how to cheat at baccarat.

 _I can’t come back to Metropolis, Clark. I can’t even go back to Gotham yet. It’s too close, too easy._ **Hope that shoulder’s healing well.** _When that crazy drifter stabbed you last month, I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill him in a way I haven’t wanted to kill anyone but the Joker for a long, long time. Just a crazy old homeless guy. I can’t afford to have that inside me. I have to get past that. And I can’t do that around you._

 _But God, I miss you._ **The weather’s great, wish you were here. Bruce.**

: : :

Another fancy hotel room. Bruce sits at a desk in a white bathrobe, rubbing his forehead and frowning with concentration. **Feb. 12. Baur au Lac Hotel, Zurich, Switzerland.** The front of the postcard shows a city ringed with beautiful snow-capped mountains. _I can do this. This isn’t so hard. I’m the goddamn Batman, I can write a cheery, empty postcard to a friend. Of course, “the goddamn Batman” doesn’t write cheery letters to friends._

 _Or have friends, for that matter._

 **Hiya, chum! How’s my favorite reporter? (I mean Lois of course, ha ha.)** _Good God. That’s lame even for good ol’ Bruce._

 **Zurich is gorgeous but DULL DULL DULL after Monaco.** _Which means more time to think about you. You with your stupid wrinkled suit and that little cut on your cheekbone that you got because you don’t know how to shave anymore. Could you possibly know how sick it made me to see that little cut on your cheek? All I could think about was how your hand had trembled for just a second and how the razor had cut into your skin...how horribly vulnerable you were now and how infinitely precious. I wanted so much to wrap you up in my arms and take you to the Batcave and keep you safe there forever and ever, like the hero in some ridiculous Gothic romance. Yet another thing that I can’t do. Who knew there were so many things I couldn’t do?_

 _I couldn’t keep you safe and I couldn’t stand knowing you weren’t safe. And I couldn’t bear to burden you with the details of that world, all the pain and suffering we caused. It’s better to forget, isn’t it? Even when I’m trying to remember, I can only recall scattered fragments, the images from dreams left after the dream is gone. Some details are more vivid than others. Your hands. How you touched me._ **Lots of mountains here but no nightlife to speak of, everything’s focused on the stock market. I hire accountants to watch my money so I don’t need to, right?** _The wind all around us. The taste of you, like salt and sunlit grass. Stop it, Bruce._

 **The boys say hi.** Dick and Tim are reading up on counterfeiting, Tim drawing a diagram for Dick of some important detail. They look up as Bruce leans back in his chair and sighs. Tim asks for his help on figuring out this latest plate. Bruce looks at his two boys and smiles—really smiles. As usual, they look slightly taken aback before returning the smile. But they do. _There have been some plus sides to this trip as well._

 **Wish you were here. Bruce**

: : :

Sunlight pours onto a wide balcony outside the royal suite of a Greek resort. Bruce wears a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sunglasses as he sits at a white wrought-iron table and touches pen to paper. **Feb. 25. Hotel Grande Bretagne, Athens, Greece. Hey bro, wassup?** _OK, now you’re just being silly, Bruce. Imagine Clark’s face when he reads that...no, upon reflection, don’t._

 **Athens is more like it! Lots of history and lots of excitement.** _And I miss you. I thought I would miss you less and instead I miss you more. I wonder if you dream about me, about us, about those two boys, so stupid and cruel and happy. Last night I dreamed that I opened a window and held out my hand to you and smiled, and you looked at me like you had never seen anything more beautiful. I don’t remember what comes before or after that. Just the look on your face and the feel of the wind at my back._

 **Dick says they’ve got a temple to Nike here. I’m not sure I approve of corporate sponsorship going that far, but it’s kind of cool.** Bruce looks over the balcony railing to where the boys are sitting by the pool. Dick has decided that Tim needs to work on his flirtation skills. The older boy is surrounded by enthusiastic women; Tim looks like he wishes he were anywhere but there. **Dick likes the Greek ouzo, Tim likes the spanakopita. Me, I’ve been hitting the libraries. Seriously—don’t laugh! OK, OK, there’s this cute librarian...ha ha, you know me!** The librarian had indeed been very cute, and Bruce Wayne had been quite charming, charming enough that she had given him access to areas of the library closed to the public. They had flirted and Bruce had murmured meaningless sweet things to her and kissed the top of her head and tried not to hate himself too much when she smiled at him. _The look on your face. The way you said my name when you wanted me to talk dirty to you. How your bright, bright eyes fluttered closed when I touched you._

 _Damnit. Damnit._ **Off to Dubai next week.** _Your tongue in my mouth. Your tongue...._

 **Wish you were here. Bruce**

: : :

At the Daily Planet offices in Metropolis, Clark turns over the postcard to look at the picture on the front. The Acropolis, of course. Nothing but the most banal and cliché for Bruce Wayne. He smooths the picture with a thumb, flips it over to look at the bold, looping handwriting again. He looks at it for a long time, then stands up and heads to the editor’s office.

“Mr. White? I’ve got some fascinating leads developing on that ports security firm based in the United Arab Emirates. If I could just get to Dubai I think the results could be quite interesting...”  



	8. St.Elmo's Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Batman and Superman have what seems like a routine night, but Bruce is unnerved.

About a dozen well-armed men sat between piles of crates in an abandoned warehouse. Their leader, a skinny, somewhat dandyish man carrying a tommy gun, paced nervously about. His eyes darted in every direction, but were unable to pierce the deepest shadows in the rafters of the warehouse.

“I say we just kill them and go home.” Superman’s voice was just the slightest hum in Batman’s ear. He hovered a few inches away from the Dark Knight, who crouched up near the ceiling, watching their quarry.

Batman barely subvocalized in response, knowing Superman’s hearing could catch it. “You know perfectly well we have to wait and see who they’re dealing with. Trust me, I’m no happier at being in Gotham than you are.” Bruce may have spent his early childhood here, but he always was uncomfortable when he had to return to the city in which his parents had been murdered. Usually they would let the police deal with two-bit thugs like the man below, but he had eluded the Gotham police surprisingly often, showing surprising ingenuity and an unpredictable streak that made him hard to pin down. He had graduated from being merely a small time crook to an arms dealer of some influence. They would have to make an example of him.

Superman sighed. “You’re going to have to find _some_ way to distract me, then, or I may just kill them out of sheer boredom.” A knife-edged smile from the Dark Knight hiding in the shadows next to him, and then a gauntleted hand slid up his thigh to caress him through the slippery material. They often played this game during such stakeouts; it passed the time, and it whetted their appetites.

Both kinds of appetites.

Batman had the Kryptonian fidgeting and breathing a bit raggedly—definitely a win for the Batman, considering Superman’s usual self-control—by the time the gangster’s customer arrived. Batman broke off his subvocalized monologue detailing the myriad charms of Clark’s anatomy to focus on getting information about the buyer. When he felt they had enough to track it to the source, the two swept down from the rafters like angels of death.

The criminals scattered in a shrieking panic, most of them quickly vaporized or shot down as they ran. The wiry arms dealer broke for the door; Bruce let Clark deal with the crowd while he went after the boss. They grappled briefly at the exit, and to Batman’s surprise, his opponent managed to shake him off with a strength that must have been born of near-crazed panic. Batman caught up to him as he teetered on a catwalk between two bubbling vats of what looked like acid. The man turned to stare at Batman and the quickly approaching figure of Superman behind him, his eyes white with terror in his narrow face. With a choking cry, he flung himself off the catwalk into one of the vats of acid, just as Superman’s heat vision touched off a huge explosion. Batman shielded himself behind his cape as the night turned briefly to day; when the shadows returned there was no sign of the fleeing criminal.

“Well, that’s that,” said Superman from behind him. “Let’s get home.” His voice was warm with deferred lust. Batman checked the charred railing for fingerprints or residue, frowning to himself. “There aren’t going to be any clues here, Bruce! The man was a crook and now he’s dead and we can get out of here.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would he jump into a vat of acid? He could have bargained with us, offered to trade us some information. He must have known we were after bigger fish than him.” Batman knelt to run a gloved finger along the ground and squint at it. “It isn’t rational.”

“I don’t know, maybe the flying Kryptonian with heat vision coming up on him spooked him just a little bit. Criminals are crazy, Bruce. Our world has clear laws and they insist on breaking those laws. We don’t worry about understanding them, we just eliminate them. Are you ready to head back to New York now, or are you just trying to tease me some more?”

Batman absent-mindedly put a few samples into his belt, then turned to leave, still frowning.

He really hated Gotham.

: : :

An hour later, Clark rolled away from kissing Bruce and flopped onto his back. “Go on, then, get going.”

Batman looked annoyed. “What?”

“’What’? I think by now I know you well enough to know when you’re just going through the motions and you really want to be off doing detective work. So get going already and spare me the pretense.” Clark’s voice was a little sharper than he had intended: it had been a long stakeout.

Batman was already halfway back into costume. He pulled the cowl over his head and opened a window, looking back at Clark on the bed with flat, white-lensed eyes. “You might want to pay a call to Lois, then. I’m sure she’s sitting around waiting for you.” He turned and readied a grapple. “I’ll be in the Belfry.”

Clark cursed briefly but heartily to an empty room.

The Belfry was the name the superstitious people of New York had given Batman’s laboratory, and he had found it amusing enough to start using it himself. Towering over the north side of Manhattan, it was a slender spire of black stone with windows at the very top. The windows were made from a polymer that let light out but shielded the interior from prying eyes, so when Batman was in occupancy an eldritch green glow flickered about the top like St. Elmo’s Fire. A lighthouse for the souls of the dead, the more poetic criminal element called it. It was, above all, a reminder to all the inhabitants of their capital city that the Batman was watching.

Batman sat in front of a bank of computer screens, working on four different windows more or less at once. His work had turned up...nothing. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about the man they had stopped tonight, beyond his relatively mundane criminal record. He had no metahuman background and no connections to any of Batman and Superman’s more powerful enemies. Batman hadn’t even felt that strange click of recognition that he and Superman felt when they encountered someone who would have been of importance to them in the world their parents had prevented from happening. There was nothing unusual about the man at all.

There was only the deep unease Bruce felt now, bathed in the light of the screens and hearing the wind pick up outside until it was nearly howling.

Only when it became clear that there was nothing to find did he allow himself to feel the first touch of regret at his parting shot. He hated it when he showed resentment. He knew perfectly well that what he and Clark shared was totally different from what Clark and Lois had. But—much as he always hated to admit it—when it came to jealousy he was only human, after all. His irritation had seemed justified then, but now felt vaguely ridiculous. He remembered Clark’s body spread and ready for him on the bed and groaned mentally, then angrily wheeled his chair about and stood up.

In the air outside the Belfry behind him Clark floated soundlessly, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on Bruce. He may have been hovering there for an hour in the rising storm wind. Now he had a lopsided smile on his face as Bruce stared at him. He was also entirely unclothed. The eerie green light from the tower danced and flickered over his body, revealing and hiding the sleek lines of his muscles and limning his features in viridian. With the wind tousling his hair and the half-smile on his face, he looked almost entirely otherworldly, and Bruce’s breath caught in his throat at the sight: his demon lover.

He threw open the window and they looked at each other. Clark shrugged in reaction to whatever he saw on Batman’s face. “I remembered you’re worth waiting for,” he said carelessly. He nodded beyond the detective, toward the computer screens. “No luck?”

“Nothing. There was nothing special about him at all.”

“But you have a bad feeling about it.” Batman nodded slightly, and Clark frowned. “It never pays to discount your hunches.”

“But for now it looks like a dead end.” Batman gestured into the Belfry. “Would you care to come in out of the storm? I was just about to make some coffee.”

A wicked smile. “I was rather hoping you’d come out here instead.” Batman returned the smile and pulled his cowl off to let the wind derange his hair as well, then stepped forward. Taking Clark’s hands, he stepped gently onto Clark’s feet, armored boots on invulnerable bare skin. His black cape blazed around them with a sound like ripping silk, and he was in Clark’s arms again and the storm blew itself out around them and they hardly noticed.

: : :

Later, sated and safe in bed again, Bruce said softly, “I had a bad nightmare last night, and that put me on edge today.”

“Mmm? Not one of the usual nightmares?”

“No, not ‘one of the usual nightmares’.” Bruce’s voice was slightly teasing, but sobered up again. “I dreamt I was trapped in a cave alone, and I couldn’t find a way out. And you were frozen in ice at the North Pole. There was a lot of other stuff but that’s all I can really remember.” He paused. “It bothered me.”

Clark nuzzled him between the shoulder blades, let his hand trail over his lover’s chest. “As if I’d ever let some ice keep me away from you,” he said sleepily. Bruce felt Clark’s smile against the back of his neck. “Silly old bat,” Clark murmured

Bruce slipped off to sleep as well, smiling a little despite himself.

That night, he had no nightmares.


	9. March:  Shadows and Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark shows up unexpectedly in Dubai to check on Bruce.

Investigative journalism was certainly safer than the superhero business, but it did have its perils, mused Clark as a gun barrel poked him hard between the ribs. He had arrived in Dubai late due to a missed connection and hurried to his meeting with a possible contact, only to find some armed men waiting for him, apparently very eager to talk to the American journalist. Now he was in a dark parking garage in the middle of the night, being interrogated at some length. The thugs hadn’t progressed to physical torture yet, but he was sure it was only a matter of time. He kept smiling, doing his best mild-mannered routine, killing time. It was worth a try.

He was not particularly surprised when three dark-clad figures seemed to simply materialize in the middle of the group of men and leap into combat. His former questioners, on the other hand, were very surprised indeed. Clark prudently took advantage of the chaos to duck behind a pillar and admire the trio’s artistry from a safe distance. All three were wearing simple black gi and gloves, with ninja-like masks and hoods, but even without their usual distinctive costumes Clark recognized their fighting moves as easily as he would have their faces.

As the last assailant tried to flee, Clark stepped out from behind his pillar to drop him with a quick punch to the jaw, then winced and shook his hand. He still wasn’t used to the fact that punches could _hurt_ now. As the two slighter figures trussed up his captors, the tallest one rounded on him. “Outside. Now.”

“Nice to see you too.” No answer. Clark made his way outside to a side street and let the Wayne family finish mop-up. Eventually the three dark figures dropped down in front of him. Three sets of blue eyes looked at him dispassionately. Clark did his best aw-shucks smile and shrug. “Thanks?”

Bruce stepped forward to jab a finger at Clark’s chest. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?” His voice was tense with fury; behind him Dick and Tim exchanged uneasy glances.

“My _job_. Investigating some possible shady connections in the ports security company run out of Dubai.”

“You could have gotten hurt.” Bruce made it sound like that was some terrible crime. “Your shoulder can hardly even be healed yet.”

“My shoulder is just fine—ow!” Bruce had whacked his shoulder exactly where he had been stabbed a couple of months ago. He rotated it gingerly. “Well, it _was_ fine. What the hell is wrong with _you_ today, anyway? Wake up on the wrong side of the coffin?”

The black-clad man stepped in closer, the lines of his body radiating anger. Clark had seen Bruce do this many times before: encroach on another man’s personal space in order to intimidate them. It hadn’t worked as well back when Superman had known he could toss Batman through the ceiling. “We’re here to train, not to go around rescuing _civilians_ who have gotten in over their heads.”

Clark fought the irrational urge to grab Bruce by the edges of that black gi and throw him to the ground...not that he could do it without super-strength, of course, but still. The man was practically begging for it. “I think I’ve earned the right to be considered as slightly more than a civilian.” There was real hurt in his voice, and he didn’t bother to try and hide it. Behind Bruce, Dick’s deeper blue eyes looked apologetic, but he and Tim kept silent.

Bruce was so close now that Clark could feel the heat from his body. Timberwolf-blue eyes knifed anger at him. “Don’t play the damsel in distress routine, Clark. It doesn’t suit you.” Then all three of them were gone into the night, leaving Clark to make his way to his hotel alone. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had been expecting when he had hurried to Dubai to meet Bruce again, but by just about any standard this had been a spectacular failure.

: : :

Clark wasn’t sure exactly why he was doing this; Bruce had made it pretty clear he wanted Clark to make himself scarce. When it came to Batman, he guessed he was just stubborn.

It didn’t take investigative journalistic skills to figure out where Bruce Wayne and his wards would be staying in Dubai: the Burj al Arab hotel billed itself as the only seven-star hotel in the world, and rose into the sky like a giant billowing sail, dominating the entire landscape. He rang up their suite and the phone was answered by a sleepy-voiced Dick, who told him that Bruce was probably at the pool right now. “And Clark...I’m sorry about last night. I don’t get it—he’s been so, um, I don’t know, _not batty_ this trip, but I guess you rubbed him the wrong way.”

The pool was drenched in morning sunlight, shards of light dancing off the aqua-blue water. Marble pillars and rich tile floors everywhere, waterfalls splashing about the palm trees that graced the walls. Bruce Wayne was asleep in a pool chair, wearing a pair of brightly patterned bathing trunks. He was surrounded by other sun-bathers; there would be no option to actually discuss last night. Clark was actually rather relieved by that. Clark approached him with some trepidation, stopping to eye him warily from a distance. He wasn’t sure he had ever actually caught Batman _asleep_ before. Sometimes he wondered if the man slept at all. Slowly Clark became aware of a particularly odd thing—Bruce was smiling in his sleep, a strangely gentle half-smile. It made his face look very young and open, somehow. Clark supposed one could hardly force a continual frown when asleep, but it was still a little unnerving. He moved closer and perched on the edge of a chair next to the other man.

As Clark’s shadow fell across Bruce, he stirred and opened sleepy eyes. The little half-smile on his face blossomed into a full smile, warm and delighted, as his eyes met Clark’s. He reached up and caught the other man’s hand in both of his. “Clark,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, as if he were speaking to a dear friend he had been longing to see. “I was just...” He broke off as the haze of sleep slowly cleared from his eyes, and the familiar guarded look crept back into his face, although he continued to smile. The hand clasp turned into a fairly brisk handshake, and Bruce sat up, shaking his head as if to clear away the cobwebs of a dream.

This was not the reception he had expected. Somewhat rattled, Clark tried to get past the awkward moment “I found myself here in Dubai for work and heard you were here as well, so I decided to look you up. Maybe I could treat you to lunch in return for saving my life back in Metropolis?”

Bruce smiled at him, the usual vapid playboy smile. “That’d be grand, Clark old chum, but I’ve got meetings most of this afternoon with some companies I’m thinking of acquiring here.” He paused, then continued almost reluctantly, “Um...I suppose...maybe tomorrow morning, breakfast? I’d...love to...catch up with you while you’re here.” Bruce gritted his teeth slightly, looking momentarily grim at his own statements, then resumed the empty smile of before. They set a time and place and Clark got himself out of the unnervingly opulent hotel, feeling deeply uneasy about Bruce. Had those postcards been some kind of cry for help? Was he brainwashed or something? But...Dick had said he seemed fine, and Dick’s instincts when it came to Bruce were probably better than Clark’s.

Clark spent the rest of the day working on his story, but his mind wasn’t really on it.

: : :

Clark looked at his watch again. 7:55. Bruce and the boys should have been there almost an hour ago. There was no sign of them, not even a call to his cell phone. 7:59. The obsequious waiter offered to bring him more fresh-squeezed orange juice, but Clark shook his head. 8:03. Where were they? They wouldn’t blow him off on purpose, not even with Bruce acting so strangely. Would they? 8:06. No, they must be in trouble of some sort. 8:08. He remembered Bruce’s angry voice from behind his ninja mask in the night. 8:10. He remembered Bruce’s smile yesterday morning. 8:13.

Clark threw down his napkin, gave the waiter a sizable tip, and headed for the door.

It took calling all of his contacts and finagling a few favors, but eventually he got enough information to make an educated guess. He was certainly no expert on breaking and entering, but he had worked around stealthy people long enough to get by. Thus he eventually jimmied open a door to find, hanging upside-down from the ceiling and wrapped in a great deal of well-knotted rope, a very annoyed Bruce Wayne in ninja garb.

Clark put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the scene. Steel-blue eyes glared at him from knee-level. “So...how are the boys?”

“Well, I believe. They are...pursuing their own projects at the moment.”

“Your friends seem to have spared no expense on the ropes.”

“I almost escaped once and they became more cautious.” A pause. Clark continued to look at Bruce, his eyebrows raised innocently. Finally, grudgingly: “A little help here?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Clark strolled a little closer. “I think you look rather charming that way. Besides, I thought _I_ was the damsel in distress. Or are we taking turns now?”

Bruce’s face reddened with what must be anger, and Clark relented quickly. Pulling out a Swiss Army knife, he began sawing at the rope suspending Bruce. It parted and Bruce fell like a cat, curling his feet under him and landing with his usual liquid grace. Clark cut the bonds on his hands and gave him the knife. The detective knelt down to cut loose the ropes on his legs. “I would have gotten out eventually. You simply saved me some time.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bruce shot him a sideways glance, removing the last of his bonds. With the mask covering the bottom half of his face and his eyes exposed, he was like a strange mirror image of Batman. Clark was so used to reading Batman’s moods from the set of his jaw instead of his eyes that it was...disorienting.

The two made their way to the exit cautiously. No alarms raised yet. They slipped into an alley, stark with morning sun. Bruce squinted uncomfortably and managed to find a sliver of shadow to fade into. “I have to check on the boys. You should go home. And I mean home to Metropolis.”

Clark shrugged. “I doubt any of my contacts will speak to me after this. And those guys don’t even know just how big a prize they’ve let slip away.”

Two sharp blue eyes in the shadows. “Why did you come here, Clark?”

Another shrug. “You kept saying ‘Wish you were here.’ Maybe I decided to take you at face value.”

“Dangerous.”

“I suppose so.” Clark turned abruptly and walked down the alley away from the man in the shadows. This one time, he didn’t feel he could bear to have Bruce disappear on him.

The next afternoon, he was on an airplane, on his way back to Metropolis. He watched Dubai glitter on the horizon behind him. He should have been thinking of cold eyes above a black mask. He should have been thinking of harsh words from the shadows.

Instead, he was remembering the way Bruce had said his name as he woke up. Like it was good to wake up and find Clark there next to him.

It had been a good trip.

  



	10. A Bent Piece of Metal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the AU of "Absolute Power," where the boys are bad, bad boys. This follows directly from [St. Elmo's Fire](http://jen-in-japan.livejournal.com/14628.html) and references events in that story.

“Clark—be careful!” Batman felt the panic edge his voice, pushing it higher than it should be. He staggered sideways and Superman grabbed him to steady him.

“What? Be careful? He’s a _clown_ , Bruce. How dangerous can he be?”

Batman stared at the Kryptonian. At his first glimpse of their ambusher—the narrow white face, rictus grin,and viridian hair—he had felt like a circuit had snapped in his head, sending a jolt of adrenaline through him. He had never seen this bizarre figure before, but he knew, and knew with every atom of his being, that the “clown” was deadly.

Yet Clark hadn’t felt a thing. Bruce was mystified. How could someone who had obviously been a mortal enemy to Batman in another life mean nothing to Superman? It was unthinkable. It implied that the two of them could possibly be something other than brothers in some other world.

That thought terrified him more than the menacing maniac in front of them.

He put out a restraining arm. “Trust me.” The grinning man in front of them was waiting patiently. Batman looked long and hard at him, then nodded. “I remember you. I thought you died.”

A low chuckle, with undertones of hysteria. “I thought I did too. But it’s amazing what a little death will do for your perspective, isn’t it? Lets you see how things really are. Or should be.”

Batman’s unease grew until it felt like it was consuming him. Where were the exits in this room? He checked them compulsively. It would take him five seconds to get to that door, seven and a half to get to that window. “You chose to jump in that acid. We’re not responsible for—“

“You’re not _responsible_? Not _responsible_? You?” Now it was full-blown hysteria in the laugh, and something more. The white face in front of him cocked to one side and eyed him almost...affectionately? Cold chills ran down his back. What was going on here? “Oh Bats. Wherever and whenever you are, one thing you will always be is... _responsible_. And I”—the figure waved a gloved hand grandly—“I am also responsible. I would hardly be doing my civic duty if I failed, even here, to do what I do best.” A flash of green light behind them.

Green light!

He tried to push Clark out of the way, but he was still feeling confused, he wasn’t thinking clearly. He heard Superman’s choking gasp, then felt something land on him from behind. The room dimmed out around him as he head footsteps approaching.

“Don’t worry, Batsy, I’ll be gentle with him.” Dragging noises. “Come on, ya big lug. Show’s about to start...let’s not disappoint our audience...”

When he came to, he was on the floor of the warehouse. Still alive.

And alone.

: : :

As a boy growing up in the 31st century, Mekt Ranzz had read an old Earth book that had described a situation as “having a tiger by the tail.” Research had determined that a “tiger” was an extinct Earth feline, and the term meant roughly “to be in a situation which you thought would give you power, but which now is going to be very dangerous to escape from.” He hadn’t fully understood the term.

Since coming to 21st century Earth he had learned a great deal about tigers, and about power. He felt he understood the proverb quite well now.

“You told me you killed them all! You told me you got rid of anyone that you knew you would be a threat to us! He’s got Kryptonite, he’s got Clark, and _this is all your fault_!” Bruce’s voice cracked.

Lightning Lord, Cosmic King, and Saturn Queen stood silently together in front of the star-filled window of their tower and watched their son pace the room with savage, snapping strides, their faces filled with sorrow. On a telepathic wavelength locked tightly against anyone else, thought buzzed between them.

{{What do we do what do we do _whatdowedo?_ }}

{{Don’t panic, Laevar. Don’t panic.}}

{{Don’t panic? Eve, have you happened to notice that the goddamn Batman is furious at us? The goddamn Batman that we trained to be a killer?}}

{{You’re his father, Laevar. You were the first to comfort him when his birth parents died. Talk to him. Calm him down a bit.}}

{{You’ve got to be sprocking kidding me.}}

Mekt broke into the conversation. {{Right now I think our top priority should be getting our son away from that madman. Focus on that. Don’t dwell on...the future.}}

Only a heartbeat had gone by. Cosmic King stepped forward and held out a hand that shook only the tiniest bit. “Bruce...son...” Batman whirled on him and Laevar backed up half a step. “We eliminated everyone we _knew_. We got most of them! Lex Luthor, Harvey Dent, Pamela Isley, Toby Manning--all those threats are gone. We did everything we could to make the world safe for our children—we did!” he cried as Batman rounded on him angrily. “But we had to know the _name_ , Bruce. And no one knew the Joker’s real name.”

“The Joker?” Batman seized on the name. Now he had a label, something to attach to the threat. He continued to pace, but some of the anger had gone out of his stride, just enough to let his parents feel safe again.

“What do you intend to do?”

“What do you think I intend to do, Mother? He’s got Clark. He’s hurting Clark right now. ”

Saturn Queen kissed him gently on the forehead. “Please be careful.”

: : :

Batman kept the Joker in view as the other man slipped and dodged through the abandoned amusement park. He was fast and devious, but Batman was not going to let him get away. He had to get to Clark.

Eventually the Joker ducked into a dark, cavernous attraction, Batman right behind him. Metal and wood turned beneath his feet, construction materials for a repair project that had never finished. Sickly green light flickered ahead and he made his way to it.

The Joker waited there, crouched like a spider next to Superman. Clark’s eyes were closed and he seemed to be unconscious. A chunk of Kryptonite was fixed to the wall near him, glimmering in the lamplight. The Joker dodged a batarang deftly, giggling to himself.

“The Tunnel of Love! I knew you’d follow me here. How fondly I remember that magical time long ago in the Tunnel of Love, just you and me, years from now on a cold dark night that never happened.” Wherever Batman struck, the Joker seemed able to predict his moves and not be there. A gloved fist hit Bruce’s temple and he backed up a bit, that irrational fear thundering in his veins. The Joker cocked his head, birdlike, and grinned at him.

“Where are your parents, little boy? All alone in the dark again?” The grin vanished for a moment, to be replaced by an equally grotesque mask of sympathy. “They don’t really love you, you know. Or they do love you, but they love you like _I_ love you.” A batarang thunked into the wall behind him; he hardly even moved. “Not like _he_ loves you.” Another batarang hummed past him. This one left a trail of blood along one pallid cheek. The manic grin returned, but the white brow was furrowed and his eyes were angry. “Look, bucko, I’m actually trying to _warn you_ here. Because I love you, kid, really I do, and I love this world you’ve made here. It’s a scream, a laugh riot! And the best joke of all is I’m finally going to get what I’ve always wanted.”

It was time to put a stop to this crazy monologue. Clark was lying there hurt, maybe dying. He had to end this. Bruce feinted left, went right, tumbled, dodged a blow, and came up with his fist hard in the Joker’s stomach, savoring the “whumph” of air. They tumbled to the floor together. Batman ended up on top, his hands wrapped around the Joker’s neck. “The only thing you’ll be getting from this world is death at my hands!”

The Joker cackled. “Oh, we are going to look back on this some day and...”

Batman grabbed the first thing he saw on the rubble-strewn ground that might make this job quicker, help him get Clark back to safety faster. A bent piece of metal.

A crowbar.

As he raised it above his head, the Joker’s eyes widened. “Now _that’s_ funny!” he chuckled appreciatively just before the first blow fell.


	11. April:  Approximations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Batfamily gathers at Wayne Manor for Alfred's birthday party. Dick issues an invitation without telling Bruce about it.

"I’ll get it!" Bruce announced to the bustling kitchen, and he headed for the front door of Wayne Manor. The hallway was immaculate and the oak floor polished to a glassy sheen, of course. Alfred had kept the place in perfect condition for the last four months. Bruce took a bit of a running start and slid across the last ten feet of the hall in his stocking feet. Other people might have attributed the action to "an excess of high spirits," but it wasn’t that. He was just...checking his balance reflexes.

Still, it felt good to be home.

Any excess of high spirits he may or may not have had, however, evaporated when he saw through the peephole who was standing on the doorstep. He swung open the door abruptly as the person on the other side prepared to ring the doorbell again. "Oh. It’s you," he said ungraciously.

Clark Kent was wearing jeans and a Metropolis sweatshirt. He grinned as cheerfully as if he had just received a warm welcome. "Yep. It’s me. Dick called and told me you were in town for a few days. He mentioned you were going to have a birthday party for Alfred."

"Oh, did he?"

"Yes." A pause. "He kind of invited me up." A longer pause. Clark finally had the decency to look exasperated as Bruce continued to stand in the doorway. "Are you planning on letting me in?"

Bruce contemplated the double-edged question gravely. _Not if I can possibly help it._ However, the stalemate was broken when Dick came up behind him and saw Clark. Elbowing Bruce out of the way, he welcomed Clark in with a warm hug, and Bruce could see he had lost this battle. He trailed behind the pair on their way to the kitchen, annoyed. Mostly annoyed with himself, at how his heart had leapt when he saw Clark outside his door.

Thank God the man didn’t have super-hearing at the moment.

As the door to the kitchen swung open, Clark, Bruce, and Dick were all sprayed with brown goop, which turned out, upon inspection, to be chocolate cake batter. "Good grief, Tim, you have to keep the beaters _down_ \--oh, Clark, hi!" Barbara Gordon beamed at Clark and he leaned over to hug her, then gave a light shoulder-punch to Tim, still staring ruefully at the dripping beaters.

"Good thing I like chocolate," Clark stated, wiping batter off his glasses. "So where’s the birthday boy?"

Dick wiped up more chocolate goo from the counters. "Dr. Thompkins made him take her out for the day so we could sneak in and get dinner ready. They shouldn’t be back until this evening."

"He doesn’t know you’re back in town? He’ll be pleased to see you."

"I suppose. I mean, he keeps busy even when we’re not around."

Barbara frowned at Dick. "He misses you _all the time_ , and you know it."

Clark aimlessly opened a cupboard in the sudden silence. "Anything I can do to help get ready?"

Barbara pointed to a cutting board. "You could cut up some veggies for the salad."

The Man of Steel picked up a knife and began to cut up some carrots, chatting with Tim about batter mixing techniques. Barbara and Dick were busy organizing the ingredients for the main dish. Bruce had been put in charge of wrapping some bread in tinfoil and putting it in the oven, which was about what he was considered capable of in the kitchen. Feeling superfluous, he tried mostly to keep out of the way, but he could tell he wasn’t even really succeeding at that. Eventually Clark came over to him and said, "Hey, I could use a breather. Want to show me around the grounds a little bit?"

Bruce glared at him. "Dick asked you to get me out of the kitchen, didn’t he?"

Clark grinned, unabashed. "He did."

"Smart boy."

They walked along one of the trails that wound through the manor gardens. It was still early in the season, so not much was blooming. A few scarlet tulips were just starting to open, and a huge bank of golden forsythia lined a stone wall along the path. Clark knelt to cup a tulip carefully in his hands, examining it. Bruce looked away from the gentle touch on the crimson petals. "Alfred doesn’t do all your gardening too, does he?"

"He does most of it."

"How does he find the time, between cooking, cleaning, patching everyone’s wounds and defending the cave from invaders with his shotgun?"

Bruce shrugged. Alfred was a force of nature.

Eventually they came to a little gazebo built on a slope and stopped to watch the sun set in a welter of gold and red. They made polite, friendly small talk about the places Bruce had been traveling to, about Clark’s work. Bruce’s knee was approximately four and a half inches from Clark’s. They were sitting at an approximately 150 degree angle. The temperature of the air was approximately fifty degrees Fahrenheit, ten degrees Celsius.

Bruce was approximately dying.

He laughed politely at some anecdote about Clark’s job and focused on ruthlessly quelling the feelings that reared up in him whenever he was around Clark now. He could do this. He didn’t _have_ to have Clark. He started a long complaint about rail travel in Europe to Clark and recited, yet again, his list of reasons to himself. Clark was married, for starters, and Bruce was not interested in being a homewrecker. Second, he had no evidence that Clark was interested at all. He might be completely horrified if he knew what Bruce was thinking about him, what Bruce knew about him, _how it drives him crazy when I put my tongue in his ear, the exact shade of his voice when he says my name while he comes_.

Clark gestured while explaining something, then put his hand back on his knee, approximately four and a half inches away. Approximately a whole world away.

Bruce could do this. He could have a nice pleasant innocuous conversation with a friend _brotherlover I need him I want him he has no powers he needs me people will hurt him I’ll kill anyone who hurts him I’ll kill them I’ll kill them_ \--which segued neatly into the third reason, the one that always put an end to the argument, at least until the next time. _How many people did I kill because I loved him and couldn’t bear to see him hurt?_ Bruce had lost count in the jumbled mess of memories and dreams. If he allowed himself to feel whole-heartedly toward Clark, was the murderous protectiveness inevitable? In this world, could he have the love without the darkness?

Batman knew how the world worked better than that.

Clark was shivering in his sweatshirt. "You’re cold."

A wry laugh mixed with some chattering teeth. "I never know how to dress right for the weather now." He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. For a moment, Bruce almost reached out to take those cold hands in his own, to warm them with his breath, with his lips. He actually lifted his hand—

 _His hands, streaked with blood, the crowbar clenched in them..._

He stood. "We’d better head in. It’s cold, and Alfred should be home soon."

Back inside, warm and surrounded by energetic young people, Bruce felt his dark mood lift a bit despite himself. Barbara was directing Tim and Dick on where to hang the crepe paper streamers; the boys were making a contest of it, balancing on various pieces of furniture in increasingly precarious ways.

They shut off the lights and waited in the dark, hidden behind sofas and chairs, while the beams of Alfred’s car swept the Manor. He came in the side door, of course; Alfred never used the front door. They could hear his voice approaching, mixed with Leslie’s, they heard the key turning in the door. Bruce felt Tim tensing in anticipation beside him in the dark, his young body trembling with stifled giggles, and then the lights were snapped on and everyone was leaping over furniture and yelling "Surprise! Surprise!"

For just a moment, Alfred’s face was slack with shock, Leslie’s warm smile beaming behind him. "My boys...oh, my boys," Bruce heard him say softly under the laughter and cheering, and then suddenly a look of horror crossed the butler’s face.

"Oh my heavens! You’re home, and I haven’t prepared _anything_ , there isn’t even any tea!—" and Alfred rushed to the kitchen followed by a mob of protesting, smiling faces.

If pressed later, Bruce might even have admitted that he was one of those smiling faces.

It took a spirited argument to convince Alfred to join them at the dinner table for a change, but he finally relented, though he balked entirely when Bruce tried to give him the seat at the head of the table.

Bruce stood and raised a wineglass. "Before we begin, I propose a toast: To friends here, and to friends absent." A moment while the thoughts and the ghosts that were always nearby flickered around the table. _Kon. Cassie. Stephanie. Jason._ "But especially today, to Alfred: a friend always here for us."

"To Alfred!" The shadows passed for now and the group sat down to the meal. "I heated up the bread," Bruce confided solemnly to Alfred on his left, knowing full well his cooking skills were a matter of hilarity in the household.

"Indeed, Master Bruce, the bread appears to be most excellently heated."

On his right, Clark was tucking into the pasta with enthusiasm and discussing politics with Dick and Barbara, waving a fork to accentuate a point. Dick was arguing back good-naturedly, his face lit with good humor and a fair amount of hero-worship. Tim seemed to be lost in thought, grazing on his salad and propping his head on his hand. "Elbows off the table, Tim," Bruce said in his best avuncular style, pitching his voice into the Brucie register. Tim stuck his tongue out but complied. Bruce listened to Alfred and Leslie discuss the ballet they had just seen, listening enough to make the right responses, but mostly simply enjoying all the chatter around the table.

After dinner, Tim brought out the finished chocolate cake, none the worse for the incident with the beaters, and everyone sang "Happy Birthday." Bruce looked around the table at them, all of them hurt and wounded in their own ways, all of them here together, singing. What was it he had said at Tommy’s funeral? _I seem to have more family than I seem to have._

After the boys had finished fighting over the last piece of cake and polished the plate, Clark stretched and admitted that he had to get going if he wanted to get back to Metropolis at a reasonable hour for work tomorrow. Everyone saw him off at the door, the lamp out front casting a circle of protective light around them. Clark went down the line hugging everyone, because he was Clark and he hugged everyone. Tim, Dick, and Barbara hugged back unreservedly, Alfred looked surprised, and Leslie blushed.

When Clark reached him, Bruce stuck out his hand.

For the first time that night, Clark looked angry. Then he reached out and wrapped Bruce up in his arms, muttering, "Damnit, Bruce, don’t—" He didn’t finish the sentence, instead thumping Bruce’s back a couple of times.

Bruce put his arms very, very carefully around Clark and squeezed just enough, just tightly enough to feel that big heart beating, feel the intake of air as the other man sighed. _I want him so much I can’t let him go I can’t bear it please..._

And then he let Clark go.


	12. An Excerpt from an Incredibly Dull History Textbook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A history lesson in fear and power, and a look behind the scenes of history.

_An excerpt from United We Stand: A History of the Twentieth Century for High School Students, by J. Crane. New York: Doubleday, 1997._

"In order to understand the beginning of the Golden Age, one must understand the Cold War.

In order to understand the Cold War, one must understand fear.

Two super-powers faced off against each other, each armed with weaponry that could destroy all human life on Earth several times over. In 1962, the Cuban Missile Crisis made clear just how close to the brink the United States and the Soviet Union were prepared to go. The people of the world were never able to forget just how close they came to nuclear annihilation.

The fortunate children of today cannot understand the level of all-pervasive fear the threat of nuclear war hung over the populations of the world. When all of humanity could perish in a fiery holocaust or suffocate in the ice of a nuclear winter at the whim of mad old men, how could people be expected to thrive? Fear was the bitter daily bread of the masses, fear was the tainted water that drove them mad.

Little did men know that, unseen and unknown to them, forces worked to secure safety for all. The Brothers were waiting, training, making alliances, biding their time until they flourished in their power and their wisdom and were ready to lead humanity to the Golden Age.

On November 9, 1984, the world watched in horror as the unthinkable finally happened. Whether triggered by flocks of geese, a weather balloon, or simple human error, nuclear missiles were launched from the silos of the Soviet Union. In response, the United States launched its own missiles. Television sets and radios picked up the story with amazing alacrity, considering the primitive communications of the time, and soon the world sat in unspeakable terror, waiting for death to fall from the sky, for the heavens to burn and the oceans to freeze, for all of civilization to be exterminated.

And then, like an angel, like a god, came the world's savior in blue and red. Stretching his fledgling powers to their limits, he wrenched the missiles from the sky as all watched in awe and wonder and dawning hope. Soaring above the atmosphere, he took the blazing explosions upon his own body, his own stainless flesh, and withstood them. But even Superman's power, mighty as it is, has its limits, and two missiles remained, streaking toward Moscow and Washington. Would the two capitals be destroyed, the architects of this nuclear catastrophe be scourged from the map? At the last minute, the two remaining warheads changed course, crashing harmlessly into the seas, their detonators rendered inert from a distance. Thus, unbeknownst to them, the citizens of the world had their first knowledge of the amazing grace of the Batman, he who watches over all in this Golden Age.

No one who was alive at that time could ever forget what happened next. As millions of television sets on every continent broadcast the images, our rescuer appeared in Berlin. A youth of awe-inspiring puissance and glory hovered over the wall that divided the city in two, the wall that symbolized the fear and divisions among the world’s peoples. In either hand, the boy held effortlessly the senile, doddering leaders of the two once-great countries. And he told the world that their time of terror was over. No longer would people tremble under the whims of unworthy leaders. No longer would they lie awake in the night, fearing for the future. The future was secure. The future was safe. He tossed the two cringing men to the ground and finished, "Today, on the beginning of the new age, _I will tear down this wall."_

And with fire from his eyes he did just that, allowing the people of East and West Germany to meet and embrace once more. History will always remember the new Adonis on that first day, as he floated above the scene, blessing the reunions of these long-divided families and friends. History will always mark that same moment when his brother Batman, the Dark Protector, the Angel of Shadows, appeared at NORAD to announce his seizure of the arsenals of the world from the incompetent and the unjust.

Adoration and worship were their rightful due.

Now the Statue of Liberty no longer stands in New York's great harbor, for men have learned that Liberty breeds terror. Instead all can see the Statue of Security, the Brothers who guard the children of Earth at all times, keeping them safe from all threats. In their powerful hands the world rests at peace, united at last under their watchful gaze. Uncertainty is gone and only surety remains:

Obey or die.

Hail the Brothers! Hail the Sun of Power and the Moon of Wisdom! May their reign last a thousand years!”

: : :

 _A scene not included in the history books, from the evening of Nov. 9, 1984._

Bruce came into the room drying his unruly black hair with a towel. He looked up from under the towel to see Clark sitting on the top bunk of their bed, swinging his legs over the edge and looking inordinately pleased with himself.

"So, did you enjoy being worshipped as a god?" Bruce asked.

Clark cast a sly look from bright blue eyes. "I'm only interested in having one person worship me."

"Oh?" Eyebrows quirked. "I hope you manage to find him or her."

The Kryptonian merely crossed his arms and grinned, which earned him a damp towel tossed at him.

"And you? Did you enjoy your day?"

"Hacking into the American and Soviet launch codes simultaneously was no picnic, despite all the practice runs. But the results were...satisfactory."

"Don't look smug."

"I think we have a right to some smugness tonight." Bruce stepped closer. "We really should get a real bed. A bunk bed is a bit juvenile for kings, don't you think?"

"I like a bunk bed. With a bunk bed I can sit on the top bunk like _so--"_

"The top technically being _my_ bunk--"

A bare leg snaked out and hooked around Bruce, pulling him close. "And you can stand there like _so--"_

Bruce nibbled on the inside of Clark's thigh. "Is there something you desire, my imperial majesty, my avenging angel, my Apollo from on high?" he inquired sweetly.

"Don't tease me, you jackass." Bruce's response was muffled but most likely obscene. Clark's hands tangled in soft, damp hair and he moaned deep in his throat. "God, that's good. We'll be kings of the world, and we'll have everything we want, and-- _ahh_ \--and you're the only thing I want, Bruce. Just you, just you forever." The brilliant turquoise eyes drifted shut, and strong legs looped over Bruce's shoulders, holding him close, and then closer.

"Oh God, oh Jesus, oh _Bruce!--"_

Clark's head thumped against the wall behind him.


	13. May:  Simple Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kents have some unexpected guests over Mothers' Day weekend.

Clark's head thumped against the headrest behind him as the jet hit the tarmac, jarring him from a truly bizarre dream he'd been having. He'd been reading an incredibly dull history textbook, and then...someone had started giving him a blowjob?

Clark was beginning to worry about his subconscious.

The pilot announced their arrival in Kansas City and they started the long taxi to the gate. Who had that been with him in the dream, anyway? He couldn't seem to remember, which was annoying. It hadn't been Lois, he was pretty sure of that, or any of the variety of supermodels one could expect in a man's dreams. Why couldn't he see the person's face? Clark felt a sudden, irrational pang of panicked anger go through him. _Damnit, why can't I remember such a simple little thing? I **want** to remember..._ He ground the palms of his hands into his sleepy eyes as if he could wring the memory from his mind somehow. _I wish I could remember..._

And now he was freaking out about not being able to recall a face from a random erotic dream. He'd been so on edge lately, obviously a weekend off was a good idea Plus, he hated flying. On airplanes. The stale air, the cramped legroom, the claustrophobia...he jumped up and grabbed his weekend bag as soon as the fasten seatbelt light was off, hurrying for the door. He was going to relax this weekend and not stress out about...about unimportant things.

But boy, that had been a _hell_ of a blowjob.

His parents met him at the gate with hugs all around. "Did you really think I'd let a Mother's Day go by without seeing you, Ma?" Clark teased. "You know me better than that." The three of them were making their way toward the exit when he heard the voice behind him.

"Hey, Clark!" He turned to see Bruce Wayne loping through the Kansas City airport toward him. "Hey, hi," the billionaire said as he approached, appearing slightly out of breath from his run across the airport. _As if._ "Fancy meeting you here!"

Clark felt his mother's elbow dig into his ribs and he stopped gaping at Bruce and collected himself. "Um, hey, Mr. Wayne--"

"--no, really, call me Bruce."

"Right, Bruce, this is my mother and father. Ma, Pa, this is Bruce Wayne, he owns the Daily Planet. We're...uh, kind of friends."

Bruce kissed the tips of Martha Kent's fingers politely, making her blush, and shook hands with Jonathan Kent. Dick and Tim came up behind him, carrying large amounts of luggage and looking peeved at having to carry it all, and there were more introductions.

"So, what are you doing in Kansas City, Bruce?"

"Oh, you know, this and that, business stuff. Meetings on Monday, decided to get in a little early, see the sights."

"See the sights of Kansas City?" Martha Kent laughed. "Mr. Wayne, I don't think you need a whole weekend for that."

"I was hoping we could catch a baseball game..."

"The Royals are out of town this weekend," said Jonathan.

"Plus they totally stink this season," said Tim, rolling his eyes.

Bruce looked chagrined. "Well, I guess we can spend it relaxing..."

Clark felt his mother start to ask why they weren't home for Mother's Day, felt her think twice of it and say nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then Martha Kent clapped her hands together. "Well, why don't the three of you come to Smallville and spend a night there with us? We've got enough guest room, and it's always wonderful to meet Clark's friends."

Bruce hesitated, bit his lip. "I shouldn't."

"Oh, it's no bother at all, Mr. Wayne."

"No, I mean, I really _shouldn't..."_

"I've got a nice pot roast in the oven and loads of mashed potatoes and gravy, and a whole apple pie--"

Dick and Tim dropped their luggage and grabbed Bruce's arms on either side. "We'd love to! Right, Bruce? Right?" Everyone laughed, and that seemed to be answer enough.

As they walked to pick up the Wayne's rental car, Clark fell behind far enough to snag Bruce. "Seriously, Bruce, what are you doing here?"

"Seriously, Clark, I trained here back when I was seventeen or so. Worked with a grafter and card shark in the area. Retracing my steps doesn't mean only glamorous places like Monte Carlo or Dubai, you know." Bruce turned back to answer a question from Jonathan, leaving Clark no chance to ask the next question, _Did you know I'd be on that flight?_

Which was a ridiculous question, of course, considering he always came back to Smallville for Mother's Day. Which meant Bruce had sought him out. Clark watched the billionaire walk ahead of him, his cream-colored leather duster swirling around him. Clark shook his head. He wondered sometimes if Brother Eye had done something to Batman during the recent crisis, he'd been acting so strangely for the last five months.

He felt the familiar current of happiness wash over him as they turned into the winding driveway leading up to the farm. Shelby and Skip came running, barking their heads off and jumping about the two cars, putting muddy paws all over everyone, including Bruce Wayne and his designer clothing, to Martha's horror.

They entered the cramped little kitchen, with the faded linoleum floors and the cracked leatherette stools, the flowered oven mitts hanging on the walls and the whimsical magnets on the refrigerator. Clark loved his home as it was, but for a moment he couldn't help but see it as Bruce and his family would see it, small and quaint. The billionaires seemed perfectly at home, however, as Martha made them coffee and got Tim a coke. Clark sipped scalding coffee, watching Bruce over the rim of his "Kansas State Fair 1988" mug. He estimated Bruce was being only about 30% Brucie at the moment, which was rather a compliment, all things considered. Jonathan offered to show Dick and Tim about the farm, and the boys went along eagerly. "You've got real cows and horses here? Cool," said Tim as they went out the door. Clark assumed their enthusiasm was feigned, but from the way Tim started roughhousing with Shelby and running about the yard doing cartwheels, he wasn't so sure. Sometimes he forgot that the Robins were actually kids.

Bruce sighed. "I take them to Monte Carlo, and they're happier seeing a bunch of cows and dogs." His tone was light enough that it was clearly a joke, and Clark saw his mother cast a laughing glance at Bruce as she opened the oven to check the pot roast.

"They seem like good boys. It must be difficult being a single father."

Bruce looked uncomfortable. "Any good in them is despite my terrible parenting skills."

"Don't believe him, Ma. He's raised them well." Bruce gave him an opaque glance that could have been disagreement or gratitude, or a host of other things.

Martha dusted her hands off on her apron. "Well, they seem nice, polite, smart boys."

Bruce stood up and pulled a picture off the top of the refrigerator. "Oh, geez, don't—" said Clark, but it was too late. Clark, Lana, and Pete all posed in their graduation gowns; Pete was mugging and balancing his tassel on his nose while Clark and Lana looked embarrassed.

"I've got albums and albums of baby pictures too," Martha said helpfully.

" _Ma!"_ Clark said, agonized, while the other two laughed. Fortunately, the mashed potatoes required attention at that point, which distracted her enough that the topic was dropped. Clark was pretty sure he didn't want Bruce looking at pictures of him bare-naked on the rug as a baby. Or dressed up as the Gray Ghost for Halloween when he was ten.

The boys came back in as twilight was falling and supper nearly done. "Hey," Dick announced to the room at large, "Tim milked a cow! Or at least he tried to." Tim went a bit red and punched him in the arm a couple of times; Dick punched back good-naturedly. Clark handed Bruce plates and silverware and they set the table, which was soon piled high with home-cooked food.

"Hope you don't mind if we say grace," said Jonathan as everyone took their places.

"Not at all," said Bruce, and everyone bowed their heads.

"Lord, for the blessings of your bounty, we give you thanks. For the gifts of friends and family, we give you thanks. For all our lives, we give you thanks. Amen."

Dick was into the mashed potatoes before the "amens" died away. Bruce gave him a chastising look, but Martha laughed and patted him on the arm. "It's a compliment, Mr. Wayne."

"We've been on the road a lot and they miss home-cooked food," he said apologetically.

"This is as good as Alfred's!" Tim said happily around a mouthful of pot roast.

"Wait until you taste her apple pie," said Clark, while Martha blushed and waved her hands at him dismissively.

After dinner, Clark loaded up the ancient olive-green dishwasher and set it thumping and humming to itself. In the living room, his parents were listening as Dick and Tim took turns telling stories about where they'd been traveling. Clark walked into the living room and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his father's old La-Z-Boy.

Martha turned to the boys. "You two can stay in our guest room tonight. It's--" she faltered suddenly. "It's empty now. Our...grandson was staying there." Clark reached over and patted her knee awkwardly as his father took her hand. He saw Tim's face shut and lock into a mask more opaque than the physical one he sometimes wore.

"I'm sorry," Bruce murmured into the silence.

"It's...it's okay." Martha dabbed at her eyes. "He was such a good boy, and I miss him so much sometimes." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, shaking off the sadness for now. "Mr. Wayne, you could sleep on the couch down here--"

"That's fine, Ma, he can sleep in my room."

"Oh," Bruce blinked. "I wouldn't want to kick you out of your room, Clark."

"No problem, I've got the space. It's a small room, but it'll work." He smiled winningly at Bruce.

"Um. Okay."

Dick snickered. "Sounds like a pajama party."

"Or a sleepover," Tim cut in helpfully.

"Slumber party."

"Boy Scout Jamboree!" The boys giggled until a look from Bruce made them sit up straight again.

Clark took his shower after the guests, changed into pajamas, and went into his room to find Bruce standing very still in the middle of the room, as if he were afraid to move and break something.

"Clark."

"Mm?"

"You. Have a bunk bed." Only Batman could make that sound like an accusation.

"Yep."

"You're an only child."

Clark sat down on the bottom bunk and scrubbed his hair dry. "Thanks for the news flash. I hadn't noticed that. The top bunk's yours, by the way."

Bruce made a small sound. Then he swung himself up onto the top bunk with his usual fluid grace. Clark lay down and stared upward. He wasn't really tired yet. He felt strange and wired.

"Clark."

"Yes?"

" _Why_ do you have a bunk bed?"

"You'll laugh."

"Me?" Clark could hear the raised eyebrows.

"Okay..." Clark took a deep breath. "When I was a kid, I really, really wished I had a brother. So much. And I thought bunk beds were the coolest thing. So my father built me this bunk bed. I--" Clark paused, embarrassed. "I used to lie here at night and imagine that I had a brother who was in the top bunk, and I'd have these long conversations with him about everything, and--" He broke off.

Bruce was laughing.

The bed shook with stifled laughter, with a jagged edge to it that Clark didn't like. After a moment he heard Bruce's voice in the darkness, sounding wild and tense. "Clark, _are you doing this on purpose?"_

Anger welled up in him for the second time that day. "What are you **talking** about?" He punctuated his words with vicious kicks at the top bunk that jarred the bed, causing Bruce's laugh to become completely unmoored as he continued to rant. "I **knew** you'd laugh! **You're** an only child too, don't **tell** me you never wanted a brother!" The laughter broke off as though Bruce were choking on glass, and silence fell in the room. Clark lay there fuming, thoughts tumbling through his mind chaotically, his heart hammering. _Why does Bruce have to be this way? Why does he have to make everything so damn difficult? Why can't he see that some things are simple and just...just..._ Clark's mind groped wildly, snatched at an idea, stuttered to a halt, _just...do what he ought to do?_

Bruce repeated musingly, more to himself than to Clark, "Are you doing this...on purpose?" There was a very long silence. Clark's anger faded and he found himself dozing, floating between sleep and wakefulness. When Bruce's voice came again it was like part of a dream.

"I'm sorry, Clark." Like velvet, rich and deep and soft. "I wasn't laughing at you."

"Then what?" Clark asked muzzily, half-asleep.

"It's...complicated."

Clark yawned, pulled the blankets up more. "Maybe it's not. Maybe it's actually really simple. Ever consider that?"

"...no."

"You should sometime. Do you good. Silly Bat."

Another long pause. "I'll consider it."

"Promise?"

A dark shape dangled over the edge of the bed in front of Clark. Bruce's hand. Batman's voice, velvet and sandpaper. "Pinky promise, Clark."

Clark reached up and hooked his little finger around Bruce's, then stretched his hand out and took Bruce's in his. For a moment he held on and felt the strong, soft fingers tighten around his. Then he let go, already sliding off toward sleep. He heard Bruce's steady breathing above him. Even without super-hearing, he felt like he could hear the heartbeat he remembered so well. He smiled into the darkness as sleep took him.

It was almost like having a brother.


	14. The Earth Like a Jewel, Glittering, Falling...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the new rulers of the globe celebrate their first Christmas after their takeover, the question is raised: what do you get the youthful godlike dictator who has everything?

"Oh, you better not shout, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why." One of the newly-hailed kings of the world sang enthusiastically to himself as he wrapped presents for his parents. Clark was sitting at a huge table in a large empty room, all glowing steel and brushed black metal. A profusion of colorful ribbons and paper spilled across the stark ebony table. "He's making a list and checking it twice! Gonna find out who's naughty and nice!" Outside the huge windows, the Earth curved through a field of stars, glowing in reflected light. "He sees you when you're sleeping! He knows when you're awake!" The tip of Clark's tongue stuck out just a bit at the corner of his mouth as he finished up a tricky fold. "He knows if you've been bad or good--"

"--so be good for goodness' sake!" Bruce chimed in from the doorway. He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, grinning. "I love that carol." He was in costume, as was Clark: their parents preferred to have them in uniform and technically on call when they visited the Watchtower. The cowl was pulled off and Bruce's steely eyes were alight with enthusiasm. "This is the first chance I've gotten to really explore this place, Clark, you wouldn't believe it! It's got everything, it's amazing. They must have had plans in place to build it the minute we took over." He took a running leap and tumbled across and over the vast table, ignoring Clark's protest as wrapping flew everywhere, ending up with his hands pressed to the curving glass walls. He pulled them back quickly. "Wow! That's cold even with gloves on." He turned back to Superman, tidying up the scattered bows. "Anyway, to summarize: coolest place ever."

Clark looked out at the parabola of Earth, washed with clouds. "It seems kind of big and empty," he said softly. "It's going to be just the three of them here while we're down on Earth most of the time."

"The teleport works fine, we'll see them like every other day." Batman answered cheerfully. "And it's time we get our own place anyway." Looking at Clark's face, Bruce relented. He dropped down on the table in front of Superman and cupped Clark's face in his hands, turning it upward. "Don't be sad, you know I can't bear to see you sad." He proceeded to distract Clark from his mood in the most surefire way he knew how, by kissing him thoroughly until he could feel the Kryptonian's spirits lift somewhat. He leaned forward and nibbled on an earlobe, then a silky expanse of neck. "Think of it this way: we're going to have to have sex in every room, and there're _zillions_ of them..." He felt more than heard Clark's buzzing chuckle beneath his lips.

"No time like the present to get started," Clark said huskily, his mood shifting like quicksilver, and pinned Bruce gracefully to the black table. The two wrestled and tussled their way around the room until both were out of breath, Bruce with exertion and Clark with desire. Locked in a kiss, their deft hands removed equipment and clothing they knew by heart. Gloves, boots, belts and capes were scattered about the room, until finally Clark was plastered full-length against the huge expanse of window with Bruce's warm body pressed all along his back, his hot breath fanning his neck. The window was cool even to Superman's senses, and its slick iciness provided a maddeningly tantalizing contrast to the warm flesh pushing him insistently against the glass.

Caught between fire and ice, Clark opened his eyes and saw the Earth hanging, luminous in the star-dusted sky. In the black glass he could see Bruce's face reflected, his eyes closed and lips slightly parted, lost in dreamy passion. Clark felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of his lover's face, spangled and studded with stars, hovering over the Earth like a rapturous angel. _So beautiful...so precious..._ and then all coherent thought was lost in the wonder of what Bruce could do to him.

Fire and ice.

: : :

Clark had insisted on putting a tiny evergreen tree on the huge meeting table and playing Christmas carols in the background as his family gathered to exchange Christmas presents. There were few gifts--they were, after all, the family that _really_ had _everything_ \--but the few they shared were meaningful.

Saturn Queen handed Bruce a sheaf of papers, which he unrolled onto the table. It took him a second to realize they were blueprints. "You need a lab, son," said Lightning Lord, "and a central location for your work and surveillance."

"We think upper Manhattan would be a good location," added Cosmic King.

Bruce pored over the blueprints in silence for a long time, the delight on his face making him look almost like an ordinary sixteen-year-old. Clark would have hugged his parents; Bruce merely said "Thank you," his eyes shining and his voice warm.

Clark tugged Bruce away from his blueprints and handed him a simple red-and-green envelope. Bruce opened it to find a photograph of Mt. Rushmore, the familiar faces replaced with Batman's and Superman's. Bruce laughed. "This must have taken you ages to Photoshop so well..." Bruce began, then trailed off, looking at Clark's beaming face. "You...you have no sense of proportion whatsoever, do you?"

"Nope." Clark smirked.

"Well, fortunately I do." Bruce held out a small box. Clark opened it to find a replica of the Earth in spun glass and gemstones. It was exquisitely delicate, glimmering in the darkness of the room as Clark suspended it by its silvery string between the two of them. He stood up to hold it against the vastness of space stretching beyond the windows, to see it mirrored by the real globe stretching below them. The filigreed glass caught the faint light of the stars, glinting blue and green. _So beautiful...so fragile..._ Bruce looked up at him, the corners of his mouth curved gently. He opened his mouth to try and express how much it meant to him.

Several things happened very suddenly almost at once.

About a dozen spaceships materialized just outside the Watchtower.

Something rammed through the windows, spraying glass everywhere.

The ornament slipped from Clark's fingers, tumbling end over end, crashing to the floor to disintegrate into sparkling dust.

And Bruce looked up to see an obscenely fleshy plant wrapped around Clark's chest, pulsing, Clark's eyes blank and distant.

Saturn Queen, Cosmic King, and Lightning Lord sprang into action, their bodies sheathed with force fields from their rings, leaping through the shattered window before the blast doors slammed down a heartbeat later. Outside the Watchtower, the battle raged wildly, but Bruce had no eyes or ears for it. All his attention was taken up by his brother, sightless and silent, standing like a statue in the center of the room.

 _Mother! What's wrong with Clark? Help me!_

 _I can't reach him, Bruce! It's some kind of mind control, I can't break thr--_ A psychic cry of agony and searing pain as his mother's voice cut off in his head. Batman was alone in his mind and in the room.

He pulled at the plant with all his might; it merely throbbed disgustingly in his hands and wrapped itself tighter around Superman. Clark didn't seem to be in pain, merely deeply enthralled. Bruce was alone. Clark had left him! He grabbed his brother's shoulders and shook him, his voice rising in panic to a howl. "Clark! Come back! We'll die here without you, I'll die here without you, come back! Clark!" For a time there was no answer. Then Clark blinked. Once, then twice. The plant started to uncoil as Bruce pulled at it.

Then suddenly, both Bruce and the plant went careening across the floor as Superman threw them away from him, his whole body a spasm of agony. Dodging the plant's groping tentacles, Bruce ran to be at Clark's side, only to have Superman back away from him, his face a rictus of pain. _"Get away from me!"_ he cried wildly. Batman stopped dead, staring at his brother. What had the plant done to him? Superman shook his head from side to side in mute agony, his hand held out to stop Bruce's approach. Then he slowly became aware of the battle still raging outside. With a cry of fury he smashed through another window to confront the attackers who had done--whatever they had done--to him.

Another blast door slammed down. Batman was alone.

Once an enraged Kryptonian enters a space battle, the tide usually turns fairly quickly, and this was no exception. Soon the few remaining ships were limping off, and the four battered fighters were floating together outside the Watchtower. Clark curled up into a ball in the vacuum of space, his cape wavering about him like flames. Bruce heard the exhausted thread of his mother's voice in his mind: "...Bruce...teleport us back..."

Batman quickly worked the teleport and his parents and his brother were back in the meeting room. Clark huddled on the floor alone, his arms wrapped around himself, his head on his knees, shaking. Bruce went to him, touched him gently on the shoulder. "Clark. _What happened?_ "

Clark spoke in a raw whisper, as though he had been screaming. "I saw... Another world. It was...like the Age of Heroes our parents warn us about. We...you and I were together, but...everything else was different. Our parents didn't exist. In their place there were hundreds of costumed heroes and villains, the skies full of them, like eagles. We were not in control. People were free, free to choose and to live any way they wanted. Hero or villain. No masters. No..."

Batman understood exactly what Superman was trying to say. _Mind control plants that trap you in a hellish vision of a world gone wrong. Leaving just enough to be familiar, but turning everything else into a ghastly mirror image, reversing and perverting what **should be**..._ His hand tightened on Clark's shoulder in sympathy. "It must have been terrible," he breathed.

Clark made a horrific noise, like a wounded animal. He raised his head and Bruce saw tears on his lashes like stars, his blue eyes laser-bright with pain. _"It was-- **It was--"**_ He struggled for words. Behind Clark, Bruce saw their parents standing, frozen. Saturn Queen had her hand over her mouth; his fathers' eyes were wide. They looked, he thought for a split second, like children who had been caught playing with a toy they had no right to. Clark reached up and gripped his hand as though it were a lifeline, staring at his face with hungry intensity. He shook his head slowly and sanity seemed to return to his eyes. "It was...yes...it was terrible," he said dully. "Terrible," he repeated more firmly, nodding.

Bruce knelt beside his brother and gathered him into his arms. "It's okay. You're back, you're here with us now. You're home, you're safe." He kissed the tears from Clark's lashes, tasting the salt on his lips.

"You know I'd never let you forget the way things ought to be."


	15. June:  Now or Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A random meeting in Shinjuku: karaoke and the King.

He was looking in the window of an electronics store in Shinjuku when he saw it, the unmistakable lean figure of Bruce Wayne reflected waveringly in the glass, spangled with neon, passing by behind him on the other side of the street. Clark Kent whirled around and stared at the man retreating down the dark street, talking with a group of Japanese men. He walked toward Bruce, then broke into a run. Packs of giggling schoolgirls made way before him, until finally he caught up with Bruce and grabbed his arm.

Bruce turned, saw him, and for a moment stark surprise etched his face. "Clark? What the...what the hell are you doing here?"

Clark grinned. "We've got to stop meeting like this, huh? I'm here on assignment. Nice coincidence."

Bruce shook his head at Clark's ironic tone. "I swear, Clark, this is a complete surprise to me." He did seem quite taken aback. For the first time, Clark noticed the people surrounding Bruce. The men were wearing long sleeves even in the muggy June weather. Yakuza--the Japanese mafia. The sleeves covered up their distinctive tattoos. Clark carefully avoided looking at their hands, but he suspected he'd see some missing little fingers if he checked.

Bruce suddenly seemed to remember his companions as well. "Oh, where are my manners? Matsumoto-san, this is an employee of mine from America, Mr. Clark Kent." Matsumoto bowed politely and Clark bowed back. "Mr. Kent works for me at the Daily Planet. And how’s my favorite reporter there?"

Clark winced. "She's...Lois is..." He sighed. "The paperwork should go through any day now. The divorce will be final soon. It could be final already. I...I don’t really want to talk about it." He didn’t, either. He didn’t really even want to think about it.

"You’re still wearing your ring," Bruce pointed out bluntly.

Clark looked down. "I suppose I am. I probably shouldn’t be." He slipped the ring off and put it in his pocket. "So anyway, your ‘favorite reporter’ is single and available again." He chuckled rather weakly at his reference to Bruce and Lois's long-ago flirtation.

"Uh." Bruce looked nonplussed. The Japanese were looking uncomfortable as well. Bruce snapped to himself and smiled widely, all feckless playboy. "Well, I'm sure Mr. Kent has things he needs to get done here, so I guess we'll be moving on. It was great to run into you--"

"I don't have anything I need to be doing tonight."

The yakuza boss raised an eyebrow. "We were just going to sing some karaoke," he said in very good English. "Would you care to join us, Kento-san?"

Bruce's vapid smile had teeth under it. "I'm _sure_ Mr. Kent has things he _needs_ to get _done_ here." _Stop meddling in dangerous stuff, farm boy,_ the edge in his voice said.

Clark felt his jaw set stubbornly. "I just checked into my hotel, I've got nothing else to do tonight." He turned from Bruce to Matsumoto. "I'd love to join you, Matsumoto-san." He made sure to keep his Japanese accent execrable on the name; Bruce wouldn't want the yakuza to know both of them could speak Japanese fluently. Matsumoto smiled and Clark fell in with the group making its way down the street. He sneaked a look at Bruce's aristocratic profile, the handsome mouth that very, very carefully was _not_ set in annoyance. _Score one for the farm boy, Bruce._

The yakuza entourage ushered the two Americans into a private room equipped with a karaoke machine and a lot of drinks. Everyone sat down and poured drinks for their superiors; Matsumoto poured both Bruce and Clark large glasses of whisky. Clark suspected it was very good whisky, but he wasn't exactly an expert on alcohol. He sipped it gingerly. The yakuza boss had the honor of choosing the first song, of course. He went to the machine and punched in some numbers, then belted out a fair rendition of Elvis Presley's "Blue Suede Shoes." One of the subordinates got up after him and did "Love Me Tender," to hoots and whistles from his fellow hoods. Matsumoto was clearly a big Elvis fan. He held out the microphone to Clark, grinning.

"Can you do the King?"

Clark smiled.

This seemed like a logical way to grab attention from Bruce and allow the detective a good opportunity to observe and listen to these criminals. He might not have super-hearing anymore, but the perfect pitch remained. Contrary to popular opinion, Superman's charisma was not a super-power: Ma and Pa Kent's little boy knew exactly how to catch an audience's attention and hold it. And Clark Kent was a big Elvis fan.

He could do the King.

He decided to start off with "Burning Love." _Lord Almighty, I feel my temperature rising. Higher, higher...it's burning through to my soul._ He closed his eyes and really got into it, doing all the dramatic Presley-style non-verbals. He even started throwing in the pelvis moves, hearing the yakuza roar with approval. _Your kisses lift me higher, like the sweet song of a choir. You light my morning sky, with burning love._

He felt the energy of the crowd, the beat of the music. He opened his eyes and saw Bruce's face, eyebrows lifted so high they disappeared into his hair, laughing an open, delighted laugh. _I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burning love..._ He felt a frisson slide up his spine; he wanted to make Bruce look like that again. He wanted to be the _reason_ Bruce looked like that. When Matsumoto laughingly insisted he sing another, he decided to break with usual karaoke etiquette and indulge himself, picking "Suspicious Minds."

 _We're caught in a trap, I can't walk out...because I love you too much, baby. Why can't you see what you're doing to me, when you don't believe a word I say?_ He theatrically flung out a hand to the room in appeal, dropping his head so his hair fell in his eyes slightly. _We can't go on together with suspicious minds, and we can't build our dreams on suspicious minds..._ Tossing back his head, he shot a wry, "I'm sure I look stupid" look at Bruce, who blinked at him, grinning almost foolishly.

After that he really felt like he should give the other singers a turn, although they hooted and hollered for another by "Kingu-san." The yakuza thugs sang "Jailhouse Rock," "Hound Dog," and "In the Ghetto," making Clark wonder whether the Japanese sense of irony was extremely high or nearly non-existent. He nursed his whisky, which seemed really strong. The room had become very warm.

Matsumoto insisted he pick another song and he decided to go with "Teddy Bear": _Baby, let me be your lovin' teddy bear. Put a chain around my neck, and lead me anywhere..._ Clark was amazed that Bruce was able to collect information on the yakuza while he seemed, superficially, to be studying Clark so intently. _Baby, let me be around you every night. Run your fingers through my hair, and cuddle me real tight._ Bruce looked close to dazed, his lips parted slightly and eyes narrowed, staring at Clark intensely, almost hungrily. Clark hoped the yakuza hadn't drugged his drink or something.

Clark dropped back into his seat while someone refilled his glass, which had become empty sometime. The yakuza boss did an energetic rendition of "Viva Las Vegas," which came out closer to "Biba Ras Begas" due to the accent. Clark looked over at Bruce sitting near him, eyeing him over the rim of his glass.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," the detective noted.

"I am," Clark admitted. "I've always been a big Elvis fan."

"Well, you are the King, after all," Bruce said enigmatically, casting him a level look from those slate-blue eyes. Clark slapped him on the shoulder jokingly, his palm touching taut muscles underneath the button-down cotton shirt. How could anyone ever imagine this man was a soft playboy? Who could possibly manage to overlook the danger and passion that simmered right there beneath the surface? He took a long swallow of his drink, feeling it burn down to his stomach.

The yakuza leader finished his song and reached over to grab Clark again. Clark tried to demur, but Matsumoto insisted: "One more, Kento-san. Just one more song."

Clark relented. On a whim, he picked a relatively slow song, "It's Now or Never." As the song began, he realized his mistake: slow songs were a lot harder to pull off songs with a faster beat. Why hadn't he picked something energetic, like "Don't Be Cruel"? He was only going to get through this one if he sold it hard to the audience, really put his soul into it. He closed his eyes and focused on feeling the emotions of the song, the passionate need, the desperate plea.

It was surprisingly easy.

 _It's now or never, come hold me tight. Kiss me my darling, be mine tonight. Tomorrow will be too late...it's now or never, my love won't wait._ He tried to fill his voice with all the trembling urgency that Presley's version had. _I'd spend a lifetime waiting for the right time...Now that you're near the time is here...at last._ He tried to sing like he was yearning for someone, like he was dying of desire. _Just like a willow, we would cry an ocean, if we lost true love and sweet devotion._ Dying. _Your lips excite me, let your arms invite me._ Desire. _For who knows when we'll meet again this way..._

The song finished and Clark opened his eyes, feeling like he was coming back from somewhere far away. His hands holding the microphone were shaking slightly. What was wrong with him? He pulled himself together, heart hammering, and took a theatrical bow, doing the requisite "Thankyou, thankyouverymuch," which made everyone roar with laughter. Matsumoto turned to the other American, sitting with his long fingers wrapped tightly around his drink, his cheeks flushed in the heat of the room.

"Wayne-san, you have not sung one song tonight! Please sing for us, I insist."

"I don't know many Elvis songs."

"Really, I insist." The boss smiled toothily. "I shall pick one for you." Bruce jumped up, looking alarmed, but Matsumoto was already punching in the code. Bruce looked at the song coming up; Clark saw those keen eyes dart about the room to the light switch, the electrical socket the machine was plugged into, the door. Then Bruce's shoulders slumped slightly and an ironic smile flickered across his face. He picked up the microphone and threw his shoulders back, fixing his eyes on a point somewhere in space. His voice was a clear, light tenor, with no Presley-style embellishment:

 _Wise men say only fools rush in,  
But I can't help falling in love with you.  
Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?  
If I can't help falling in love with you?_

Bruce didn't look at him, even glancingly.

He wished Bruce would look at him.

 _Like a river flows surely to the sea,  
Darling, so it goes,  
Some things are meant to be..._

Clark felt sudden tears prickling the back of his eyes. This wasn't supposed to be a sad song, was it?

 _Take my hand, take my whole life too,  
For I can't help falling in love with you. _

Bruce finished up simply, without flourishes or mugging. He bowed courteously to Matsumoto and sat back down, picking up his drink and taking a measured sip. He didn't look at Clark.

The party broke up a little while after that. The yakuza said goodbye very politely, and Bruce and Clark left the karaoke center together. As Clark came out of the building and turned, the street lurched under him. He leaned against a wall briefly to steady himself. Bruce leaned gracefully next to him.

"Little too much whisky back there. Never sure about the limits of the unpowered metabolism. Seems I'm no longer unintoxsh...unintoxicabibble...I'm a little bit drunk," he confided.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Oh, thank goodness. I'm so relieved."

Bruce slung Clark's arm over his shoulder, holding him up. Together they stepped cautiously away from the wall.

"Okay, let's get you back to your hotel, Clark. Which way is it?"

"Don't have one."

"You don't—But you said—"

"I lied."

"You...lied?"

"Yep. Never got checked into one. All my stuff's stored in a locker at, um...some station." He waved a hand vaguely in what might have been the correct direction. "Never find it in this state."

Bruce started to laugh helplessly. "You're totally impossible." He briefly leaned his forehead against Clark's shoulder. "All right, you stay with me tonight, okay?"

"Kind of you. That's my Bruce, always looking out for me."

"My pleasure."

The two of them started to make their way down the street together, not entirely in a straight line, Clark noticed.

"You, my friend, are not entirely stable yourself."

"You know, I _have_ been told that."

By the time they reached Bruce's hotel, Clark was sobered up enough that he could have stood on his own. If he were to be honest with himself, he probably had never been that drunk.

He wasn't sure this was the right time to go being honest with himself. Because then he'd have to admit that just having Bruce's arm around him was making him happier than he'd been in a long time. That he couldn't get enough of staring at his profile, hearing his voice. That he wanted—

Yes, definitely not the best time to get honest with himself.

Coming out of the elevator, Clark’s legs seemed to go sideways a bit and he lurched to the left. Bruce reached out to steady him and Clark found himself being held gently against the wall. "Thanks," he muttered. "Thanks for everything." He leaned forward with a sudden impulse to hug Bruce, but miscalculated the distance somehow and banged his mouth into the other man’s ear. "Sorry." As he drew back, his lips scraped across Bruce’s cheek. He felt faint stubble and tasted the slightest tang of sweat, and it suddenly seemed the most natural thing in the world to slide his mouth over to Bruce’s lips for just a moment. The moment went on, as Clark found himself unable to back away, dizzy with the taste of whisky and the texture of Bruce’s lips, the teeth beneath them, hardness hidden under softness like the man himself. He touched those strong teeth lightly with his tongue, wishing they would part so he could feel the deeper softness he knew had to lie beneath, the deeper sweetness he needed to taste...

Slowly he became aware that Bruce wasn’t responding at all; that he had, in fact, gone utterly motionless. Like a sobering shock of cold water—-kissing _Batman_ in a hotel hallway, what the _hell_ \--he pulled back. Bruce’s eyes were open, his pupils wildly dilated, staring at Clark. His body was tense with a stillness that Superman had seen many times--just before Batman launched a barrage of attacks at someone. For a long time they stood there, Clark dying of mortification and praying Bruce would just write this off to the drinks, let him move on without comment, and not realize how desperately he had wanted to do that, or how desperately he wanted to do it again.

Then Bruce was grabbing his wrist and pulling him down the hallway, dragging him bodily toward his room, and Clark was sure that he was about to get a vicious Batman-style berating about unprofessional behavior once they arrived. He supposed he was lucky Bruce hadn’t decked him right then and there. At the door, Bruce stopped to fumble with the card key, keeping a firm grip on Clark’s wrist as he opened the door and pushed him inside ahead of him, like he was apprehending a criminal.

As the door swung shut Clark turned to face Bruce with some vague intention of apologizing. There was a flurry of motion and he found himself instead flat on his back on the bed, with Bruce straddling him and doing his determined best to kiss every square inch of his throat. In between kisses he was reciting the most amazingly filthy litany of what he intended to do to Clark and how nothing and nobody in any universe was going to stop him. This sudden reversal of fortune effectively shattered the last shreds of Clark’s self-control, and he heard himself making a sound that might have been "please" and might have been "God" and might have been "Bruce," but stalled out somewhere right in the middle. He grabbed at Bruce’s head, feeling the silky black hair slip through his fingers as softly as he had imagined for the last six months, and crushed the other man’s mouth harder against his throat.

Bruce chuckled against his neck. "Oh, you want this, yes you do, I know you do," he crooned softly, almost to himself, unbuttoning Clark’s shirt deftly and gliding his hands down Clark’s chest. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Clark’s pants and briefs and ran them teasingly about the bare waist, trailing just low enough to make the other man writhe against him. Clark heard the metallic chime of his belt buckle being undone and realized that he was about to be mostly naked with a fully clothed Bruce on top of him.

"Wait, wait, stop," he said breathlessly. The litany ceased abruptly and Bruce sat up, holding his hands up like a criminal before a policeman, holding himself back. He was breathing heavily, his eyes dark with lust, but his face was, for once, entirely easy to read. _I'm sorry, I've gone too far, forgive me._ He moved back, started to swing himself off the bed.

Clark reached up and hooked his fingers around the top button of Bruce's shirt. Tugged sharply. Buttons pinged wildly about the room. Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, grim crusader of the night, sat there with his shirt ripped open to the navel, staring at Clark. "Now we're even," said Clark.

The Dark Knight of Gotham said something that sounded like "Guh."

Clark ran a hand from Bruce's stomach to his throat, darting sideways briefly on the way to make the other man take a sharp breath. "What, speechless?" he said teasingly.

Bruce's eyes were feral now, almost luminous with desire. Two strong hands thumped down on Clark's chest: a wolf cub pouncing on a packmate. _"Never."_

He stripped Clark out of the rest of his clothes with a strange mix of efficiency and gentleness, explaining just exactly how gorgeous his Clark was, and how perfect, and how much his Clark was going to enjoy what he was going to do to him. Clark felt a hot blush rise in his face, much more at hearing Bruce’s voice saying "my Clark" than at the graphic acts being described. Everything felt rather like a dream--there was no fumbling, no awkwardness, none of the usual glitches and hesitations that two people should have their first time together. Bruce seemed to know exactly what Clark wanted, precisely where and how and when Clark enjoyed being touched. He did things that Clark hadn’t _known_ he liked. He pressed kisses to the insteps of his feet and the insides of his knees; he flickered his tongue into the hollows of his ears; he paused to take Clark into his mouth long enough to make him arch his back and cry out, but not long enough to break the flow of that ardent catalogue of his Clark's wonders, or his promises of more pleasures to come. It was like every erotic dream Clark had had for the last six months all coming true at once. He felt like he had been shattered into a million pieces and remade just for this moment.

Bruce drew back suddenly. "Damn. We need--" he broke off and got off the bed, keeping Clark pinned to it with one strong hand on his chest. "Wait here."

"Okay."

"Don't move. Don't go. Wait here."

"Okay."

Bruce took one step backward toward the bathroom, still holding his hand out as if to keep Clark there. "Don't go."

Clark almost laughed. "I won't go." Bruce turned and bolted into the bathroom; Clark could hear the sounds of shaving bags being hastily opened, things falling to the floor, and Bruce cursing to himself. The Batman obviously hadn't been prepared for this.

Bruce yanked the bathroom door open and darted back into the room holding a bottle. "You're still here," he said as though he really hadn't expected it. He stared at Clark, waiting on the bed for him. "You're still here."

"Bruce. You couldn't get me to leave now if you tried." Clark grabbed his hand as he drew close to the bed. _"I'm not leaving,_ Bruce. You're never going to be able to get rid of me now." He raised that elegant hand to his mouth, kissed the knuckles.

Bruce closed his eyes. "Good," he whispered. "Whatever happens later, Clark, believe me..." A deep breath. He opened his eyes and looked at Clark steadily. "Good."

Then he grinned again, a kid in a candy shop, and pounced once more.

It was like flying, but without leaving the ground. It was like fighting, but without any hostility. It was like a game, but the most serious game Clark had ever played.

It was bliss.

The near-perfect synchronicity only faltered once more, when Clark found himself more or less on his stomach, the other man smoothing something onto his hands, rubbing Clark's shoulders and back, going lower, lower...Clark twisted to face the other man, the first note of unease in his voice. "Bruce, um, I’ve never--" He broke off as a look of near-anger flickered across Bruce’s face. Then Bruce leaned forward until Clark could no longer see his face.

"Clark, please, just trust me, please, please, trust me," he said hoarsely. He stroked oil-slick hands up and down Clark’s back and flanks, caressing and coaxing, soothing and arousing, and soon Clark had nothing left that he could say but the truth.

"I trust you."

Bruce groaned as if those three words were more arousing than the thousands he had said tonight, and pressed against Clark. He bowed his head and kissed Clark tenderly between the shoulderblades, taking a deep, ragged breath. Clark felt drops spatter on his back and...and that was sweat, it had to be sweat, it _had to be,_ and suddenly he didn’t dare turn around and look at Bruce’s face again. But then Bruce moved and was inside him and it was all right, it was all right, and then it was a hell of a lot more than all right, it was _glorious._ It was like they had done this a thousand times before, it was perfect, and he bit down hard on his own forearm to keep relatively quiet. Bruce grabbed his hair gently but firmly and pulled his head back, saying, "No, damn you, I want to hear your voice, I _need_ to hear my Clark’s voice."

That was all the encouragement Clark needed. Broken words spilled out of him in an incoherent jumble: "Yes, please, yes Bruce, more, God...so good, you’re so beautiful, I’ve wanted you for so long, I couldn’t stand it anymore, harder-- _ah!_ \--yes, God, don’t stop, don’t ever stop, never again, never lose you again..." Bruce made a sound that was half surprise and half delight and went rigid, his hands scrabbling wildly on Clark’s back. Clark almost turned to try and see his face then, but Bruce was touching him with a hand that was as close to clumsy as Batman would ever get, still shaking with aftershocks of his climax. Bruce stroked him once, twice and...he was so close already...and then he was tipping over the edge, and falling, and Bruce caught him and held him and whispered his name into his hair until he finally stopped trembling.

: : :

In the morning, Clark woke up alone, and he knew without even rolling over that Bruce had already checked out of the hotel and was on his way out of Japan. _Ladies and gentlemen, Batman has left the building._ He probably should be furious—maybe later he would be—but right now he still felt so good, so contented, that he couldn’t muster the outrage.

Bruce Wayne might be the World’s Greatest Detective, but he wasn’t going to be able to hide from Clark forever.


	16. A Handprint on Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one came from Jen saying, "OK, who else isn't accounted for in the AU? The original JLA is all dead. Wonder Woman is showing up at the end of the arc, can't use her. I've written Dick. I've written Joker. I assume Lex is dead. We've seen Lois and Selina. Who else...oh. Oh no, no no _no,_ oh...I don't want to write this one." *sighs and goes to write it*

The cookies are almost done. The scent of vanilla extract and melting chocolate chips fills the kitchen. Alfred Pennyworth is washing dishes. The whisk, the spatula, the bowl. He dries them carefully. No water spots. He wipes the marble countertops until they gleam again.

A shining silver timer dings once. Alfred removes the cookies from the oven, placing them carefully on a cooling rack. He looks at the clock. There is probably time to dust the library once more.

In the library, he wipes the thinnest layer of dust from the bookcases, the end tables. The furniture polish smells like lemons. The portrait of his employers looks down on him. Dr. Thomas Wayne, his eyes stern and friendly at the same time. Mrs. Martha Wayne, one elegant gloved hand resting on her husband's. They are smiling. One of the books on the bookshelf is slightly pulled out. He gently pushes it back into the right place.

 **: : :**

Two months ago, the bodies of Thomas and Martha Wayne had been found, shot to death. A robbery gone bad, a struggle, fatal bullets. It would have been just another crime, except the murderer's body lay next to them. Forensic evidence indicated, unbelievably, that he had been killed with the same bullets that killed the Waynes.

There was no sign of their son. Bruce Wayne had vanished into thin air The police had turned up nothing, even with a substantial reward as incentive.

Two days ago, Alfred Pennyworth had received a handwritten note in the mail. He had recognized the scribbly black handwriting immediately. _Dear Alfred. Please don't worry about me, I'm safe. Some friends killed the bad guy who shot Mom and Dad. They saved me and took me here. I'm sad but they're good people and they treat me well so don't worry. I want to see you so don't call the plice so I can come see you. Sincerely, Bruce."_ A date and time was added at the bottom.

 _Plice._ Two months ago Alfred had corrected that spelling error in a detective story Bruce had written. Bruce had teased him about it and said he'd always spell it wrong from now on. Then the Waynes had left for a movie and never returned. _Plice._ Alfred understood. _It's really me, Alfred, and this is the truth._

Alfred didn't call the authorities.

 **: : :**

He arranges the dark green curtains in the library so the folds fall properly. He looks out the window. The rose bushes out front need a little watering, and the spruces near the gate could use some trimming. He makes a mental note. He walks from the library back to the kitchen, his footsteps echoing loudly, like a ticking clock. He notices a smudge of chocolate on the oven door and gets a damp cloth. The doorbell rings.

 **: : :**

Alfred Pennyworth opened the door and saw young Bruce Wayne standing on the doorstep, quiet and grave. He smiled slightly at Alfred, his eyes sad. "Hi Alfred. I'm sorry I made you worry."

Alfred felt a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to scoop this solemn child up in his arms and hold him. "Master Bruce, it's a pleasure to see you. Please, do come in...all of you," he added belatedly, taking in Bruce's companions. Behind him was a young couple. They both wore their clothes as if they were slightly uncomfortable in them. Both wore the same large ring, with a stylized "L" on it.

Alfred Pennyworth had not always been a butler. He knew dangerous people when he saw them. And both of these visitors were dangerous people indeed.

Another child darted out from behind the adults and ran to stand beside Bruce in the hallway. Alfred had a quick impression of turquoise eyes, unruly black hair, and a great deal of barely reined-in energy. The child looked about the massive hall. "Wow, this is where you used to live?"

"Yes." _Used to._ Alfred felt cold stab through him at Bruce's casual acceptance of the past tense. He cleared his throat.

"There are some freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen, Master Bruce."

Bruce's eyes lit up. He punched the other child's shoulder. "Race you to the kitchen, Clark!" They were gone, with the other boy's plaintive "But I don't know the waaaaaayyy..." echoing after them.

Alfred looked at his guests. The red-haired woman held out a hand to him. "My name is Eve, and this is my husband Mike." Her husband, whose prematurely white hair framed an unlined face, shook Alfred's hand gravely.

"No last names?"

"None we care to give." For a moment the air crackled with tension. Alfred looked away first.

"Would you care to have a seat in the library while we discuss the situation?"

"What a lovely grandfather clock!" Eve said admiringly as they entered the room. "Mike, just look at it." The pair did seem very taken with the clock. Behind them, Alfred cleared his throat.

Mike turned around and looked apologetic. "Mr. Pennyworth. I'm so sorry we can't be perfectly straightforward with you. Suffice to say that we came along too late to save Bruce's parents on that tragic night, but we did save him, and we intend to raise him as our own son now. He has no surviving relatives. We can give him a family. We've come to love him very much." Alfred gestured politely and the two guests settled into the large leather chairs near the fireplace.

"And yet you have not gone through the proper legal channels." Outside the window, Alfred could see Bruce and the other boy, their hands full of cookies, running around in the garden. Spotting a lizard, they squatted together to examine it, their dark heads almost touching. The bench near them needed some re-varnishing, part of Alfred's mind noted distantly.

"Our own legal status, alas, is...not altogether settled. I'm afraid adopting him openly and legally is out of the question." Illegal immigrants of some sort, then. "When it becomes possible for us to declare ourselves openly, he will take possession of this estate and his legacy again. Until then, we know that you have been named to hold it in trust for him indefinitely. All this will remain in your care. You may use the estate as you like until that day."

Alfred decided to ignore the insulting assumption that he could be bought. It was a common assumption people made about servants. "I cannot simply allow two strangers to take the boy away--"

The red-haired woman stood up abruptly, her posture angry. "What can you give him? What? An empty old house?" She swept a hand out to indicate the immaculate library. "An empty life of hopelessness, an empty struggle he can never win? When we can give him so much more?" Her voice became pleading, cajoling. "We love him, we'll raise him as our own. He and Clark are like brothers already. His life with us will be wonderful, I swear it to you."

Alfred looked at her, so young and hopeful, so clearly passionate about Master Bruce. These were people of power, yes: but what kind of power and to what purpose? He couldn't see enough to judge.

Into that silence, that balancing moment, Bruce and Clark came running from the garden, playing tag. They rampaged about the library, chasing each other until Clark ran right into Alfred's immobile form and fell backwards. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir," he said cheerfully, getting up and dusting himself off. "This is a great place. Did you know you have lizards in your garden?"

"Eumeces fasciatus, the five-lined skink. Yes."

Clark looked impressed. "Cool."

Bruce was looking at Alfred, the playfulness gone from his face and figure. "Alfred, are you going to let me stay with them? They said it was up to you if I could stay with them or not."

"Master Bruce...do you _want_ to stay with them? Truly?"

Bruce pondered the question for a moment, then nodded resolutely. "Yes. I do, Alfred. They've told me I can do great things with Clark. I'm going to make the world a safe place, so nothing like...like _that_ ever happens to anyone ever again." He looked for the first time at the portrait of his parents on the wall behind Alfred. For a moment, something cold and frightening passed behind his eyes. "I'm going to, even if you don't let me go with them." Alfred had worried that the boy had seemed too unaffected by his parents' deaths; now suddenly he found himself wondering if Bruce had been more deeply affected than could possibly be seen on the surface.

The grandfather clock ticked loudly. Alfred felt the weight of the whole house pressing down on him, the whole massive, empty house. What kind of family could he ever give his young master? What kind of life, what kind of hopes?

Still, it did not feel like victory when he bowed his head and said he would not alert the police. It did not feel like triumph when Clark and Bruce whooped and danced about the room.

It felt like defeat.

Alfred saw the little family off, Mike carrying a small suitcase with all the items Bruce had deemed most important to take with him. At the doorway, Bruce shook hands gravely with Alfred. Then, suddenly, he flung his arms around the older man, who found himself on his knees, wrapping the boy up tightly and holding him, rocking back and forth, back and forth, with Bruce in his arms.

"Take care of the house for me, Alfred. I'll...I'll come back! I'll come back and visit all the time!"

Alfred held Bruce tightly, fixing in his memory the feel of those small arms around him. "Be well, Master Bruce." The sound of the boy's voice. "Be safe." He paused. It wasn't his place, but... "Be good."

 **: : :**

Bruce pulls back and runs down the lane to where Clark is waiting for him. They walk away slowly. Bruce looks back at Alfred one more time, as though he's thinking about running back again, about staying...and then Clark puts a hand on his arm and says something, and Bruce turns away. The woman called Eve looks back at Alfred a bit longer, her strange aquamarine eyes steady.

He knows that he will never see Bruce Wayne again.

Alfred Pennyworth watches until the family is out of sight, then watches where they were a little longer. Eventually he turns and goes back into Wayne Manor. His knees hurt, and he moves slowly. He stops to shine a mirror and notices the first silver hairs threading through the black.

The hallway floor could use another waxing. He stops to put a piece of bric-a-brac in its correct place. In the kitchen, there will be cookie racks to put away. And the bench in the garden will need varnishing. So much to do.

He walks into the library. The bookshelves are immaculate. He runs a cloth across them anyway. Scent of lemons. The ancient grandfather clock ticks, every tick another moment gone. And so many more to come.

He moves to dust the clock. There is a small handprint on the glass door, the whorls distinct as a crime scene fingerprint. Alfred reaches out to wipe it off. He pauses.

He turns and walks out of the room, leaving the handprint there on the glass.


	17. July:  A Spot of Tea and Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, Dick, and Tim are nowhere to be found. A rainy day in Gotham; Clark shows up at Wayne Manor looking woebegone.

Rain ticked on the windowpanes of Wayne Manor like a metronome. The skies were lowering and gloomy. Alfred Pennyworth was polishing the cut crystals on the chandelier in the dining room when the doorbell rang. He frowned; no guests were expected at the empty manor.

The door opened to reveal Clark Kent, standing in the pouring rain without an umbrella. His hair was soaked through, as was his shirt. He looked like nothing so much as a large Labrador puppy, complete with sad puppy eyes. Alfred gestured for him to come under the porch roof, but not far enough in to drip on the newly-waxed floor. "May I help you, Mr. Kent?"

"I had heard...um. A rumor that Bruce and the boys were back in town, and I..." the sentence hung in mid-air. Alfred considered it from all sides.

"I'm afraid your information was faulty, sir. Master Bruce and young Masters Richard and Timothy are, in fact currently...incommunicado."

Clark sighed soggily. "I know. I've been looking. They seem to have gone to ground for a while, and if Bruce doesn't want to be found, he won't be found, that's for sure. I had just hoped..." His shoulders slumped. "Well, I'm sorry to have bothered you." He started to turn away.

"Mr. Kent?" The reporter paused. "Perhaps you'd like to come in for a spot of tea and an opportunity to dry off a bit?"

Clark looked beyond Alfred to the spotless entryway, the gleaming floors, the immaculate bookcases, and the empty, silent house. He flashed a smile that could potentially have dissipated the storm clouds above and started to step into the Manor.

"Please, Mr. Kent...let me fetch you a towel first, for heaven's sake."

: : :

The tea was perfect, of course, served with what Clark would have called cookies but Alfred would have called biscuits, sweet and crisp and light. They made small talk about the weather, about Clark's work. There was no discussion of non-civilian matters. Clark assumed the butler knew his other identity, but he got the impression that Alfred Pennyworth would never be so gauche as to discuss it openly. Clark looked about the gleaming, spotless kitchen. "They've been gone for seven months now. You must get very lonely here, Mr. Pennyworth." He stopped at the reproachful look on the butler's face.

"Please, sir, you really must call me Alfred."

"You call me Mr. Kent."

"Nonetheless, Mr. Kent, to you I am Alfred."

"That hardly seems fair, or equal."

"With all due respect, spoken like a true American, sir. Equality is not always the most important thing in life. You are Master Bruce's friend, therefore you are Mr. Kent, and I am Alfred. Forms of address are terribly important. They keep relations between people clear."

Clark knew he was scowling. He had always disliked this aspect of Bruce's life, this having a servant. He knew the relationship between Alfred and the members of the Bat family was more complicated than that--he was friend and supporter and even father to most of them--but Alfred himself insisted on defining the relationship as a subordinate one. The man did have a right to determine how he wished to be addressed, but it still bothered him.

"Very well...Alfred...but you still haven't answered my question."

The butler took a moment to refresh the two teacups, then took a long sip of his steaming drink. Rain pattered on the windows. "Wayne Manor is not suited to being empty and silent, Mr. Kent. But I know they are coming back. That is a...very comforting thought. In addition, I spent many years alone here while Master Bruce traveled the world in his teenaged years, so it is not exactly a new experience."

"It's hard to imagine Bruce as a teenager, much less as a child." Clark shook his head and took another bite of a cookie. Yet despite his words, he felt like he _could_ imagine Bruce perfectly well at younger ages, as a laughing little boy or a young man, all quiet passion and surprising tenderness.

That was...odd.

Alfred eyed his pensive guest for a moment, then rose from the table. "Wait here, sir. I'll return momentarily." Clark listened to his footsteps recede in into the distance. The kitchen was quiet, tranquil. He brushed his fingers across the marble counter, so different from the scratched formica counters at the Kent house. Yet there was love here, too, love that gleamed from the waxed floors and the polished silver. Surfaces and depths, the interplay between them in their strange split lives.

Alfred re-entered the kitchen holding a large, leather-bound book with the word "Photos" embossed on it in scrolling gold cursive. "I thought you might enjoy looking at this, sir."

Clark opened the first page gently to find a picture of a naked baby with a sleek head of black hair and barely-focusing blue eyes lying on his stomach on a rug. He couldn't help it; he snorted a laugh. "Bruce would not be happy if he knew you've shown me this."

For the first time, Alfred's eyes held the glint of irony so common in superheroes and their associates. "This is the...photo album for public consumption, sir. Specifically for showing to female companions, so that they may giggle and Master Bruce be charmingly flustered."

Clark didn't really want to dwell on the image of Bruce being charmingly flustered. Or, to be honest with himself, he _did_...just without the female companions nearby. He leafed through the album. There were many early photos: Bruce reading a large book in a bay window seat, Bruce dressed up as Green Lantern, with the upswept collar and all, for Halloween, Bruce holding a little black lizard in his hands. "Eumeces fasciatus, the five-lined skink," he said absent-mindedly.

Alfred looked impressed. "Indeed, Mr. Kent. When did you become an expert on lizards of the northeastern United States?"

Clark shrugged. "I must have read it somewhere. I have a good memory."

He asked questions about certain photographs and Alfred told the stories behind them. The book was Edgar Allen Poe, and young Master Bruce had been able to recite most of the "The Raven" by heart when he was seven. He had also loved "Jabberwocky," Alfred noted as an aside. Yes, young Master Bruce had idolized the original Green Lantern when he was a child. He had spotted the hero once during a visit to Metropolis and could talk about nothing else for days. Clark imagined Alan Scott's face at the sight of a young Batman dressed up in his costume and couldn't help smiling.

The rain outside created a sort of curtain that closed the butler and reporter into a circle of memory and affection around the pictures of the dark-haired boy. Alfred even unwound enough to laugh softly at some of his stories of scrapes young Master Bruce had gotten into as a child. Clark found himself relaxing and letting go of a little of the tense frustration he had felt digging into his shoulders the last month or so. He knew Bruce couldn't stay hidden forever, but in the meantime he had been spending a lot of time pacing and thinking. And dreaming. ...Dreams with long, complicated stories he couldn't remember in the morning. Then there were the intense dreams he remembered all too well. But here in Bruce's home, some of that frustration slipped away.

The happy reminiscences ceased all too soon, and there was a gap of time in the photographs. They were replaced by newspaper clippings and postcards. Young Bruce Wayne, 15-year-old heir to the Wayne fortune, was back in town to dedicate a new clinic: the newspaper article showed a handsome, empty-faced boy with an oversized pair of scissors and smile to match. A postcard from the Sorbonne yawning about how bored he was with Paris. And a black and white sketch on a piece of lined paper, a sad-eyed boy in a gi, gazing gravely at Clark. Behind him the artist had sketched a chrysanthemum: the Japanese symbol of royalty.

"Who drew this?"

"A young woman Master Bruce met in Japan. She gave him this sketch when he left."

"She must have known him very well." Clark reached out and gently touched the boy's solemn face, smoothing a finger along a dark-winged eyebrow. He wished he could go back in time, see those eyes lit with happiness rather than shadowed with such grief.

He realized Alfred was looking at him closely, and he drew his hand back. "Well." He finished the remainder of his tea. "I probably should head back to Metropolis. It'll be slow driving in this rain."

Alfred handed him a heavy black umbrella at the door. "You'll be needing this, sir."

"Oh, I couldn't."

"Master Bruce would never forgive me if I sent you off in the pouring rain without one. You may return it the next time you are up to the manor."

Clark stepped out into the rain and opened the umbrella. "Thank you, Alfred. I enjoyed the tea and cookies. And thank you for showing me the photo album." He turned to go.

Alfred cleared his throat, a small sound in the rain. Clark turned back around. "If I may be so bold...don't give up on him, Master Clark." The butler closed the massive walnut door gently.

Clark stood for a moment in the rain, looking bemusedly at the Wayne family crest on the heavy door. Then a smile of enough wattage to potentially reduce Bruce Wayne to emotional rubble dawned across his face.

He set off toward his car, whistling cheerfully.


	18. The Crown and Scepter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new rulers of the world take care of some public relations and some demolition work.

"Look at this, Clark, just _look_ at it!" Bruce almost hopped with enthusiasm about the room lined with computer screens and keyboards. "Can you believe it? Look at these memory circuits--you wouldn't _believe_ the capacity they have. And these plasma screens are state-of-the-art--hell, _beyond_ state-of-the-art. The surveillance capabilities...Laevar must have planted cameras in every cranny of the entire world. And then there's the satellite coverage! Check it out." He called up images of Paris, Moscow, San Francisco on the screens, then narrowed it down to specific buildings, and then specific rooms. His hands flickered across the keyboard and the images blurred, scattered, fragmented and morphed across the massive screens. Blue-green light chased across his cowl-less face, and his smile settled into a look of grim satisfaction. "Now I can get some _real_ work done." He glanced over at Superman, who was looking at his face rather than the computer screens. "I'm sorry, I'm boring you."

"Hm? Oh, no, never." A dazzling smile that coaxed an answering smile from the young Dark Knight's face.

Bruce reached out and tapped a few buttons, suspending the dazzling cascade of images and information on all but a few screens. He pulled Superman to the window and wrapped the other man's arm around him, looking out across the city. "It's ours, Clark. We can make it perfect. We can make it the way it ought to be." A hissed intake of breath as Clark nuzzled the back of his neck; he leaned into it, half-lidded eyes gazing hungrily at the world outside his tower. Their world. Batman pulled one of the heavy windows open and maneuvered Superman toward it. "Let's go flying," he said breathlessly.

Superman laughed, turquoise eyes sparking. "You and flying. Ten months ago you'd never done it before, and now I can't get you to stay on the ground. You know, it's ok to do it in an actual _bed_ sometimes."

Batman stepped up onto the window lintel and tugged at Superman. He wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disgust. "Bed? Beds are for _girls._ "

Superman didn't budge. He crossed his arms and tilted his head. "A subject you seem to be _intimately_ acquainted with since we took power."

A pause. Batman grinned and spread his hands. "I do have an image to maintain..." Only a silent young woman in a different world could have seen and read the slightest unease, the faintest question, in his posture.

Superman reached out and put one hand on Bruce's chest, fingers splayed across the bat insignia. He smiled. It was not a particularly human smile. "For all I care, you can fuck every human on this planet. We both know you're mine in any way that matters."

Silence. Batman looked at the Kryptonian, his breathing gone suddenly ragged. He grabbed Superman's wrist. "The sky. _Now."_

Superman stepped forward with inhuman grace and put his arms around Batman--and a computer screen in the room burst into red light and alarms. Both of them whirled immediately to check it, the sky momentarily forgotten. Batman punched a series of buttons and a screen filled with the image of the Statue of Liberty. Her torch had been coated with some blindingly luminescent paint, and a man in green stood near it, his face starkly lit by the sharp glow. He was holding a bullhorn. Superman cocked his head to catch his words.

"What a ridiculous little man. Let's go kill him."

"Wait." Batman put a restraining hand on Superman's arm. "Give me a moment, and I think we can turn this more to our advantage."

 **: : :**

Oliver Queen was standing on the Statue of Liberty, reciting the poem on its base at top volume, with annotations. "'Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, with conquering limbs astride from land to land,' listen to me! _This isn't right!_ Hey, you--you huddled masses! Yearn to breathe free, people! Yearn to--ah, crap." Superman floated in the air in front of him, eyes smoldering. Green Arrow swallowed hard, looked up at the phosphorescent flame, and somehow managed to continue. "This statue stands for Liberty, you Nazi pig! You can never extinguish it! You can never destroy it!"

"Oh, but why would I need to destroy it, when terrorists like you will do it for me?" said a silky Kryptonian voice, too quietly for anyone but Green Arrow to hear.

"Do it for--what the hell are you talking about? I'd never blow her up!"

A quiet tsk-tsking noise. "This is what comes of giving people too much liberty. They use it to destroy innocent lives and precious historical landmarks. Your cold-blooded sabotage is a symbol of all that my brother and I are fighting."

"But I'm not sabot--oh shit. You sons of bitches!" Realization dawned on Ollie's face and he started to jump...just as the charges went off beneath him. The Statue of Liberty collapsed in rubble. Superman and Batman saved as many of the huddled masses as they could, but there were still unfortunate losses. The youthful rulers of the world mourned the dead and vowed never to give terrorists the opportunity to strike again. With the advanced surveillance capabilities of the newly-built tower, such incidents should never happen in the future.

The archer's body was never recovered, though they both searched the rubble late into the night. "Maybe he's dead?" Clark suggested hopefully.

Batman sighed. "The jackasses never die."

"Not unless we take care of it personally. I will, next time."

 **: : :**

Superman stepped from the air into the building people had started to call the Belfry. He was dressed in full regalia: crimson and gold armor, heavy velvety cape with the symbol picked out in gold thread, and a filigreed gold band on his head. Batman stood before a computer screen, similarly outfitted in ornate black armor with silver edges glinting. He was tapping a heavy silver scepter against the console thoughtfully as the thin, nervous-looking man on the screen finished what seemed to be a pre-planned spiel.

"...and so you see, my dark Lord, you'll want the children of the world to grow up knowing all about your amazing ascent and reign."

Batman called up a couple of files. "Until recently, history was not your field of expertise."

The man's eyes were ice-pale and wide. "Six months ago I suddenly became aware that...that my preferred subject of study had reached its apotheosis, and thus there was little point in continuing it further."

Batman studied the professor's file for a moment; his lips curled as if he had been complimented. "Very well, Dr. Crane. I accept your proposition."

Crane folded his skinny body almost in two. "I bow before my master."

"Yes. Indeed you do."

Batman closed the link and turned to Superman. "A little PR can go a long way," he said to the Kryptonian's questioning look.

Superman turned so the cape swirled behind him. "How do I look?"

Batman's eyes traveled slowly up the length of Superman's body, from the tight golden armor to the circlet topping his wavy black hair. "Ridiculous. You look ridiculous, and so do I."

"Hey. I let you have the scepter, the least you can do is be polite."

Batman reached out and tapped Superman's chest with the silver scepter, smirking. "So many innuendos. So little time."

"Speaking of which, we probably ought to be at the dedication by now. Do you want to arrive flying or on foot?"

"You fly. I'll step out of the shadows, remind them that we could be anywhere."

Superman paused in the window, looking back at Batman. "Bruce?"

"Mm?" Batman was shutting down a couple of screens.

"I don't think you look ridiculous. I think you look like a god."

Batman didn't turn around. "Meet you at the dog and pony show." Only when he was sure the Kryptonian was out of sight did he allow himself to smile.

At the dedication of the new Statue of the Brothers, a blare of brassy fanfare greeted the arrival of Superman and Batman, landing and appearing simultaneously side by side in front of the statue. The crowd bowed their heads and said their catechism reverently: "All hail the Magnificent Sun! All hail the Glorious Moon!"

"I'll show them a glorious moon," snickered Bruce subvocally to Clark.

"Shush. Stand there and look menacing."

"My pleasure."

Superman stepped forward and spread his arms wide, embracing the crowd. He needed no microphone to make his voice heard. Each person gathered under the base of the statue heard it as if the speaker were standing in front of them, speaking to them personally.

"Today we gather to dedicate a monument to the new age on Earth. The statue the terrorists destroyed stood for Liberty. Sadly...ironically, it was that very liberty, unfettered, which brought her to ruin. Out of her ashes has risen a new symbol of hope...of security." He stepped back and put one arm around Batman, hovering with him a few feet off the ground. Their capes mingled and billowed together, red and black, gold and silver. Superman put all the force of charisma and command he had at his disposal into his stance; people began to drop to their knees. Beside him, he felt Bruce's heart accelerate and breathing quicken as it always did the moment they left the ground, but nothing of his arousal showed in his haughty posture, his commanding, piercing glare.

They knelt down, rank by rank, the huddled masses before the new colossi, the sun and the moon. After the two turned and soared out of sight together, silence lingered in their wake.

 **: : :**

Above the clouds, the sun and moon were giggling together.

"Did you see their faces? Cowardly and superstitious. Sheep, most of them."

Clark's laughter trailed off. "They may be sheep, but we're their shepherds. It's our responsibility to keep them safe, Bruce."

"I know, Clark. But they're wolves, too, some of them. You can't expect them to just follow..." He looked a long time into Clark's face. "Or maybe you can." He cocked his head to the side. "Have I mentioned you're cute when you're sincere?" Bruce idly twirled the ornate scepter in one hand.

"Don't drop that scepter, it took a lot of work to make and you don't want to bean one of the sheep."

"Oooh, my scepter is so _long_ and _heavy,_ Clark! Do you want to touch it?" Teen-aged laughter which abruptly roughened to moans. "Stupid...armor..."

"We'll go drop it off at the Belfry and get back to the sky."

"Our sky." They were lying perpendicular in the air, Bruce's body tight against Clark's, familiar and comfortable and intoxicating. There were no sheep or wolves in the sky, only the sun and moon.

"It's all ours, Bruce, earth and sky."


	19. August:  Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark tracks Bruce down at a party, which leads to a discussion of verb tenses and verb choices.

Nicky Lewiston tried not to drum her fingers on the table. That might chip her manicure, after all. She had come to this Hollywood party hoping to make some connections, maybe really get her career started. She had had the chance to dish with that dreamy Dick Grayson, but she had thought, why talk to the prince when you could nab the king? So here she was, sitting with Bruce Wayne at a majorly swanky soiree at the house of a major Hollywood player. Sitting with Bruce Wayne, Gotham's billionaire golden boy. Bruce Wayne, in the finest silvery-gray designer suit she had ever seen and a mauve banded-collar shirt, was flirting with her, Nicky Lewiston.

Nicky had never been so bored in her entire life.

Bruce Wayne was a total dolt. He didn't seem to have any interests besides golf and car racing, and he was going on about them at incredible length. The occasional compliment about how pretty her eyes were hardly compensated for fifteen minutes of monologue about Bermuda grass and its effects on putting. But she tried her best, smiling and looking interested, and she might even have gotten somewhere if that dork reporter hadn't shown up.

He came loping across the room, dressed in an amazingly cheap-looking suit and poorly-knotted tie. He had massive nerd glasses and a huge grin on his face. "Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne!" he said enthusiastically, and dropped into a chair next to Nicky, facing the billionaire. "Oh," he jumped back out of the chair and held out a hand to the other man. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet." Bruce waited just long enough before shaking hands to be insulting. He looked even more bored than before; he was practically stifling a yawn, even. Clark held out a hand to Nicky.

"A reporter?" she said as she shook it politely. "Do you know anyone famous?"

Bruce Wayne didn't take his eyes off the newcomer. "He's an investigative reporter, not the celebrity beat."

"Oh." Well, he had a nice handshake, for a geek.

The reporter dropped back into his chair and turned his attention back to Bruce. "I've been trying to catch up to you for some time, Mr. Wayne."

"And now you have. Congratulations." The playboy examined his manicured fingernails carefully.

"I was hoping I could ask you some questions?" Bruce shrugged nonchalantly, looking like he would much rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else. The reporter took out a notebook and a fountain pen. He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with the pen, looking at his notes.

"I've been hoping to ask you about the reports I've heard of certain...improprieties at Wayne Enterprises and its subsidiary companies." Bruce raised one sweeping eyebrow quizzically. "It's come to my attention that the CEO of Wayne Enterprises--that would be you, correct, Mr. Wayne? Right...that the CEO of Wayne Enterprises has been engaging in...shall we say...inappropriately intimate behavior with certain of his employees." Now both of the billionaire's eyebrows shot upward; he gaped at the reporter. Nicky puzzled through that complicated sentence, then turned to Bruce for clarification.

"Brucie, is this man claiming that you're screwing one of your workers?"

Bruce Wayne smiled at Clark Kent. Nicky didn't know human beings _had_ that many teeth.

"Mr. Kent is confusing the continuing present tense of a verb for the simple past tense."

Clark Kent smiled back. Nicky was still trying to recall her high school grammar and missed some of the impact of that smile. But she hadn't been the target anyway.

"With you, Mr. Wayne, I sincerely doubt there is ever such a thing as the simple past."

Bruce took a deep breath. "I believe I made my feelings on this issue quite clear at the end of our interview in Tokyo."

The reporter pushed his smudged glasses up on his nose and seemed delighted. "Well now, Mr. Wayne, I wasn't going to bring up our encounter in Tokyo, but since _you_ have..." Could the playboy look any more bored or bland? It didn't seem possible. "I had the distinct impression at the time that you were satisfied with certain lines of questioning that evening. I seem to remember that you expressed some satisfaction. I remember, um, actually quite well. I know I was pleased with the results." He looked down at his notebook. When he spoke again, some of the teasing edge had left his voice. He sounded a little sad, even. "I really thought...I still really _think_...that if we just work together on this, on this assignment, on this story, that it could be...great. It doesn't have to be a struggle. I'm tired of it being a struggle." He looked up directly at the man across the table, and Nicky thought suddenly that he could actually be kind of cute, if he took off the stupid glasses and dressed better. Cute for a dork, at least. "I enjoyed our interview. I'd like to interview you more often."

Bruce just looked at him. He didn't smile, he didn't smirk, he didn't even look bored anymore. He just looked at Clark. His face seemed, Nicky thought with a very rare flash of insight, like he was afraid to show any reaction at all, for fear it would reveal too much. The two men looked at each other, and it was like a clash of swords and a handshake at once. And then Bruce Wayne's eyes flickered just a fraction and he bit his lower lip very slightly. That was all.

Clark Kent sat back in his chair and beamed. The billionaire immediately looked extremely annoyed. Nicky wasn't sure what had just happened there, but these two guys were definitely weird. Looking for something to help break the silence, she noticed the pattern on the reporter's notebook. It was decorated with cute little bats in a Hello Kitty style, all tiny fangs and googly eyes. "Oh, how adorable!" she said, making a grab for it.

The reporter snatched it away from her, all his good humor seemingly restored. "Nuh uh uh," he said cheerfully, "The bat's mine, all mine."

Bruce Wayne glared across the table, clearly losing his grip on his temper. "Go to hell, Kent," he snarled.

Clark gave him an odd look, part disappointed and part amused. "So it's to be the struggle after all. Well. I can do that too, if we must."

"I don't need you to come barging in here and tell me how to conduct my private life!"

Clark's chin came up and he gave the billionaire a long, level look. "With all due respect, I don't think you have the faintest idea what you _need,_ Mr. Wayne."

Bruce Wayne's face went very still; a muscle ticked at the corner of his eye for a second. Then he pushed his chair away from the table and stalked out of the room, stiff-legged as an angry cat.

Nicky watched him go in amazement, then turned to Clark Kent, tapping his notebook against the edge of the table and smiling to himself. "I think you really got to him, mister."

He looked at her as if he had forgotten she was there, then grinned goofily. "Yeah, I think I did." He stood up, nodded politely to her, and ambled off in roughly the same direction Bruce Wayne had gone.

Nicky waited for a long time, but Brucie never came back. After a while she gave up and wandered off to find Dick Grayson, who eventually introduced her to an up-and-coming film producer. She ended up landing a bit part in an upcoming movie from it, so the evening hadn't been a _total_ waste.

 **: : :**

Bruce Wayne was in a linen closet upstairs in George Lucas's ranch. He was being pushed up against a rack of towels and kissed with devastating thoroughness. The feel of Clark's body, even fully clothed, against his, fitted tightly against every inch of him, filled him with relief and comfort and craving and desperate terror. _I could kill a few people who have hurt him, just a few to prove how much I love him, I could start with Lois,_ said a young, laughing voice that he cut off brutally. He wasn't that boy, and just because he couldn't keep his damn hands off Clark didn't mean anything about love in this world. It didn't mean anything. None of this meant anything.

Clark broke off the kiss. _" **Never** give me two months to prepare again,"_ he growled, and the sound of Clark Kent _growling_ was so entrancing and distracting that Bruce almost missed the moment when Clark dropped to his knees in front of him. The next thing he knew Clark had flicked open his fly and engulfed him in wet heat, pinning his hips to the towel rack with strong hands. Bruce knew that he should command Clark to back off, to stop being ridiculous. But suddenly he wasn't sure just how much control over his voice he might have right now, with Clark's tongue and lips sucking and flickering and teasing. Telling Clark Kent he was an idiot in full-on Batman grit was one thing. But if his voice wavered...if it came out playboy soft and yearning or, God forbid, cracked all over the register in mad surrender...then he was totally lost. He clamped his mouth shut and locked everything he ought to say, and everything he wanted to say, inside.

Clark didn't seem to be in much of a rush. He looked up at Bruce, mischief sparkling in those laser-blue eyes. The glasses had been abandoned at some point. That didn't look right, Bruce thought absently, no glasses but the wrong hairline. He reached out and brushed his fingers through Clark's hair until it fell on the forehead correctly. Clark glanced up again, and the sight of Superman's brilliant eyes below sweaty, curled hair and above a mouth doing... _that_...caused Bruce to close his eyes quickly and catch his breath in the small, hot closet.

Okay, let's assess the situation and figure out exactly how I got here and how to avoid this happening again, he thought dazedly. I'm in George Lucas's closet and Clark Kent is giving me a blowjob. Is giving me head.

Leave it to Clark to take an act that's defined as "giving" and make it feel so very much like taking.

Taking me in his mouth, taking my breath away, taking my heart and soul—no, no, it's nothing, it's just sex, it's not needing, it's just wanting, I just want him physically, I want his hands in my hair and his mouth on mine and on me, want nothing more than his body and his bright eyes shining and his laugh and his trust I just **want** I don't _need_ \--

White noise and static blotting out thought.

Moments later, Clark kissed him on lips he had bruised biting to keep from crying out. Not gently. The reporter leaned up against Bruce, letting him feel his own unsatisfied need hard against his thigh, and nuzzled the playboy's ear. "Next time I'm taking more, _Mr. Wayne._ "

And then he left.

Bruce Wayne clenched his fists, shaking. He had told himself he was staying away from Clark for fear of losing control of his violent impulses.

It was now clear that he was at risk of losing all his control.  



	20. My Own Eyes Looking Back at Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman Rule #659: "So...what does this button do?" is never a good thing to hear your partner say when examining unknown alien technology.

It was a slow day in the Watchtower, about a week after Clark's twenty-third birthday. Superman and Batman had come up to visit their parents and had taken the opportunity to go through some of the storage rooms. Mekt, Eve, and Laevar had crammed various rooms full of technology they had pilfered from the future, most of it unworkable or beyond their comprehension. One of Batman's favorite pastimes was going through the rooms and taking apart the future tech, seeing if he could make it work again. One of Superman's favorite pastimes was watching Bruce's face while he did so.

Today Batman was lying on his stomach on the floor, holding a large orb that looked like an elaborate cat's cradle of crystalline wires with drops of something like water that ran at random about them. It was marked with three connected circles: Brainiac's sign. When asked, Eve had shrugged and said this particular machine had never done anything that they could determine, but Bruce was welcome to look at it.

Superman squinted at it. It was hard to look at...it seemed to go in more directions than were actually available, somehow. "Tesseract technology," Bruce replied absently when Clark asked. He tapped one of the wires and it made a faint singing sound. He rolled over onto his back and held the machine above his head, looking at a series of jeweled buttons. His cape got tangled underneath him and he tugged it into better position.

"What does this button do?" asked Superman, pointing to a blue one.

"Nothing, as far as I can tell. Just like the rest of them." Bruce's eyes were narrowed in concentration and he gnawed on his lower lip irritably. Superman knew from hard experience that attempting to kiss that adorably chewed lower lip would not be a good idea right now. To distract himself, he reached out and tapped the blue button.

At the touch of his Kryptonian skin, the machine flashed into abrupt life, the droplets coruscating wildly. Batman's alarmed yelp was drowned out in a sudden sharp whine and a cascade of colors that slammed both of them into white unconsciousness.

 **: : :**

Clark came to slowly. Every muscle in his body ached. Something felt very odd. _Everything_ felt very odd. He was clothed in something heavy, encasing his body, hands, feet. Where was Bruce? He tried to hear his brother's heartbeat--and heard nothing. Panicked, he flailed against the encumbering clothing and fell off one of the Watchtower's medical cots. Looking up, he found himself looking into the eyes of the man on the other cot, brilliant turquoise eyes beneath a black curl.

His own eyes.

Clark stared blankly at Superman. "Clark?" said Superman's voice. Clark looked down at his hands, clad in stiff black leather, the black cape...

"No way."

The door slid open and Saturn Queen and Lightning Lord hurried in. "Bruce...Clark," Eve said distractedly, looking at Batman and Superman in turn.

Mekt nudged her. "Clark...Bruce," he corrected.

She bit her lower lip. "Um, yes, right."

"What's going on?" both Clark and Bruce said simultaneously, then looked at each other.

Eve put some schematics of the Brainiac machine up on the medlab screens. "Since I scanned your mental patterns and realized what happened, we've been working full-time to find some information about this machine. We've managed to come up with some useful knowledge. The machine only works with a Kryptonian, which is why we thought it was broken. It...well, I guess you've figured out what it does by now."

Superman--Bruce--was flexing a hand cautiously, staring at it. He spoke without looking up. "Is it...permanent?"

"The effect appears to last only about ten hours. It was an early prototype."

"How long have we been unconscious?"

"About two hours." She eyed the two of them carefully. "Are...are you feeling all right?"

"All right? All _right?_ " Bruce reached out and twisted the railing of the cot as if it were paper. He looked at his family with a huge smile. "This is _amazing!_ " He looked at Batman. "I can hear your _heartbeats_...that's incredible." He stood up and hovered about two inches above the ground. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "And I can _fly!_ Oh my God, that's so--I have to try this out--" he bolted from the room at top speed. Seconds later Clark and his parents heard the teleporter whine into action.

"Well, _I_ don't feel so great," said Clark.

 **: : :**

Four hours later, Bruce had still not returned with Superman's body. Clark's parents had stopped coming by to report on what national monument Bruce had redesigned or country he had been gleefully terrorizing.

Clark was sitting on the edge of the bed in their quarters, flipping batarangs at a target on the wall with a desultory air. Most of them had missed entirely. Brainiac's machine sat and sparkled mercilessly on a nearby table.

A whisper of movement, and Superman was hovering near him. Clark bit his lip and refused to meet those uncanny, familiar/unfamiliar blue eyes. "I'm sorry," whispered Superman's voice. Then Bruce was kneeling next to him, taking Batman's hands in his. "I wasn't thinking. It's like someone gave me the keys to the coolest shiny new car in the world, and I drove off and left you here. I was stupid and overwhelmed and I'm sorry."

This was an unusually direct and detailed apology from Bruce, and it forced Clark to stop pretending he wasn't paying attention to his brother. "What changed your mind?"

A small chuckle. "I was at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, and I saw a species of fish that's supposed to be extinct--and I turned to point it out to you. And you weren't there. It wasn't much fun after that. So I came back." He ran a finger over the back of Batman's hand, then touched his lips to it lightly, the slightest brush of tongue on salty skin. "How do you _live_ like this? I was half-crazy with the heightened senses alone, not to mention the flight, the strength..." He looked stricken. "I left you here deaf and blind. You must hate me."

"The first hour was...hard. But the brain adapts pretty quickly. Good thing, too."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. With some work, you can get the effect to last longer, I know it. Maybe even be permanent. And then you can have your mind, your will in a Kryptonian body. You won't need me any more." He tried not to sound bitter. He had been trying not to be bitter since the realization had dawned on him almost four hours ago.

Brilliant blue eyes looked at him. Bruce leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, very gently. To Clark, grieved and miserable, it felt like a goodbye kiss.

Then his brother went over to the glittering machine and unceremoniously crushed it between his hands. It made a brief squawking noise, then crumbled into fragments. "Super-strength is so handy," Bruce smirked.

Clark just stared. "Why?"

A shrug. "I want you, not your body."

"Be serious."

"I am serious. If that's not clear enough for you...well. It's not my job to explain every damn thing, Clark." Clark made a mental note: irritation was not a becoming emotion on his face. Superman shifted awkwardly, tapping a foot in a gesture that Clark recognized as indicating nervousness for Bruce. His brother looked at the scattering of batarangs on the floor and in the wall.

"So...how did you spend the last four hours?"

"Oh, same as you, more or less. Getting to know your body more...intimately." He smirked and added, "You might want to have the gauntlets cleaned." Clark almost burst out laughing at the other man's expression, but he managed to keep a poker face. It was easier with these facial muscles, he noted.

"You...you're kidding."

Clark was able to keep silence for another beat. Then he couldn't help it, he started laughing. "Yes, of course I'm kidding, geez. Oh, the look on your face!" He held his sides and rolled.

"I'd deserve it. I took _your_ body for a joyride, after all." Bruce looked glum and hangdog again.

Clark aimed a playful kick at his ribs. "Oh, stop it." The next thing he knew, strong hands were finding a chink in the Batman body armor and tickling his ribs. He squeaked and squirmed away. "Hey, that _tickles_. You never respond when I tickle you, I thought you didn't feel it."

Superman's hands were insistent. "I just don't show it."

"Oh _really?_ " Clark said, his deep blue eyes lighting speculatively. "I'll remember that..." and then he dissolved into laughter as Bruce mounted a serious attack upon various ticklish spots.

"Stop giggling, you. You have _no idea_ how to use my voice properly. You're supposed to pitch it lower than that!"

"Don't tell me to stop giggling when _you're_ the one tickling me, jerk," wheezed Clark. Damn, human bodies got out of breath quickly. He wiped watering eyes and suddenly found himself being wrapped up and kissed. He leaned into the kiss hungrily until they both opened their eyes at the same moment and recoiled like opposing magnets. Clark touched Batman's lips with a finger. "The hall of mirrors effect is...less of a turn-on than one might think," he admitted. They paused, looking at each other. Then Clark saw Bruce's smile cross Superman's face.

"Close your eyes," said Superman's voice, and Clark was pushed down onto his back by a firm, gentle hand. The Batsuit was off him before he hit the bed.

"I'm going to do what I should have done right from the beginning, instead of wasting hours and hours running around alone." Hands of amazing strength and delicacy traced down his body. He shivered. "I'm going to show you how you make me feel." A body warm as sunlight against him, hot breath in his ear. "How you always make me feel." Superman's voice, Bruce's timbre, husky and passionate.

"Close your eyes, Clark."

 **: : :**

Clark stirred, still half-asleep. He felt good. He heard Bruce's heart beating steadily in the silence of the room. He opened his eyes to see wry steel-blue eyes looking at him above a lopsided smile. "Welcome home," he said to Bruce, reaching out to brush the hair away from his brother's face.

"No place else I'd rather be," said Batman.


	21. September:  Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A golf game, and other games.

Bruce Wayne sat behind a desk at the Florida branch of Wayne Enterprises, listening to his secretary report on the last few months of business information. He had taken a break from his world travels, leaving the boys in Vancouver to come to Orlando for a charity golf tournament, and Linda had taken the opportunity to fly down and insist on briefing him in person as much as possible.

She had pie charts.

Bruce tried to pay attention. It had been over a month since that party in Hollywood and--thank God--the damned Boy Scout hadn't caught up with him again yet to make good on his "promise." So much for those vaunted investigative reporting skills. It wasn't like Bruce and the boys had even been particularly underground, either. Was it possible Clark had been patching things up with Lois? That would be good for all three of them. Yes, that would really be for the best. Get the damned puppy dog off his back and everything would probably be fine all around.

"Sir?" Linda's voice cut through his thoughts. "If you're done shredding that prospectus..." Bruce looked down to see a heap of mangled paper. When had that happened? The secretary reached down and gently extricated the mutilated pages from his hands. "There is one more item, sir. About the golf tournament at Disney World tomorrow morning."

She continued after Bruce nodded absently. "You were supposed to be paired up with a reporter from the Orlando Sentinel, but he had to withdraw today. Illness in the family, it seems. We found a last-minute replacement, another reporter." She glanced down at the tablet in her hand. "Won a Pulitzer, I believe."

Bruce grabbed the tablet away from her and glared down at it. Then he handed it back to her with a sigh. "Linda," he said, "Do you ever get the feeling sometimes that there's a malign force out there that insists on arranging your life to suit its malicious whims?"

"No, sir."

Bruce rubbed his forehead. "Maybe it's just me."

 **: : :**

He walked jauntily toward Bruce in the early morning sun, whistling "It's a Small World After All." He waved and broke into a lope when he came near. "Well, Mr. Wayne, fancy meeting you here!"

Bruce looked out from behind very dark sunglasses. They cut the glare. _"Please,_ call me Bruce."

"Gotcha, Bruce."

They walked toward the golf cart together. Bruce gestured toward the wheel. "I believe you're in the driver's seat at the moment."

"Oh no, I wouldn't dream of it. The driver's seat is all yours, Bruce."

Bruce started up the golf cart with a jerk and took a small, petty pleasure in making Clark's head whiplash back a bit as the motor kicked in. The morning dew sparkled on the greens like diamonds, and hordes of dragonflies hovered almost motionless above the grass. It was quiet. Bruce glanced over at Clark, draped somewhere between awkward and graceful in the seat next to him. Clark's hand was about three inches from Bruce's shoulder. At some point, of course, the Kryptonian would let that hand rest warmly on his shoulder, ever so slightly possessive, just enough to make Bruce think about those hands resting elsewhere. Bruce was amazed that Clark seemed to think he could manipulate the Dark Knight. As if just getting touched on the shoulder was going to make the Batman start thinking about sex.

Fortunately, Clark kept his hands off of Bruce's shoulder on the way to the first hole, so Bruce wasn't thinking about sex at all.

The two men began golfing, mostly in a silence that Bruce meant to be "sullen," but which kept slipping into "companionable" when he wasn't watching. The occasional conversation was usually about the game, but now and then the topic shifted into other realms.

 **The Second Hole:**

"You can relax, Bruce. I'm not going to drag you off into the bushes and have my wicked, wicked way with you."

"I _am_ relaxed."

Clark was teeing up. Bruce was glowering from the cart. Clark took a practice swing. "For starters, I'm not invulnerable at the moment, and I'm not going to risk the mosquitos and poison ivy getting at my tender skin." He hit the ball, then walked back to the cart, holding out an arm. "Look at this." He indicated a red, welted mosquito bite. "I can't believe how annoying something little like a mosquito bite can be." He scratched at it irritably.

Bruce reached out and slapped his hand away from the welt. "You just spread the poison when you scratch." Commentary about scratching itches raced through his brain, but he wasn't going to let Clark trick him into any of that.

As Bruce went to tee off, Clark continued. "Besides, this is a pretty public place. I'm not going to risk any untoward behavior. I'll just have to settle for conversation." He smiled, watching Bruce's swing.

So that was the man's game. Flirt with him shamelessly, then hijack him to a hotel room or something when this was over. Not that Bruce intended to let _that_ happen. But now the strategy was clear. After that comment, obviously Clark was going to finally make the first move, break the stalemate and touch Bruce in some way. It would seem totally innocent--just that hand on his shoulder, or a knee brushing up against his--but Clark would assume that first physical contact would be enough to drive Bruce out of his mind.

Except, Bruce realized, he himself had touched Clark first, to make him stop scratching his arm. He frowned.

Clark's hand stayed three inches away from his shoulder on the way to the next hole.

 **The Sixth Hole:**

Bruce's iron gouged a gigantic divot out of the grass. "What did you say?" He turned to stare at Clark.

Clark was sitting back in the cart, staring absently at a container of Liberty brand golf balls, the green statue lifting her torch on the label. "Huh? Oh, just that it's strange to think it used to be a statue of the two of us instead."

Bruce sat down heavily next to him in the cart. "You remember that?" Cicadas shrilled madly in the trees.

"Well...define 'remember.' I mean, I know it happened--that we got kidnapped, ruled the world, all that. Most of it's just kind of an abstract knowledge, like a history book. I can actually see scenes from the last few hours, like a comic book, or a movie. But I don't remember what any of it _felt_ like. It's like I'm watching from outside. For example, I can see how you looked when...when Diana--and I can see my reaction, but I don't remember how I was feeling from the inside." He got up and selected a club.

"Doesn't that...bother you? Thinking about what we did?"

Clark frowned. "Of course it bothers me, Bruce." He hit the ball cleanly, walked back toward the cart. "But ...how can I explain? That wasn't _me._ That was a version of me that never knew Smallville, grew up totally differently. Bruce, this universe just survived an assault by a supervillain that was a version of _me_. He was aided by a pigheaded, inflexible--" he caught Bruce's look--"Okay, _more_ pigheaded, inflexible version of _me._ If I spend a great deal of time feeling bad about what different versions of me do, I'm never going to get anywhere, am I? The version of me who put up a statue of himself for people to worship--he has nothing in common with who I am here, today. I have to believe that, Bruce, about so many of the alternative visions of myself that I've been allowed to glimpse."

Bruce rested his arms on the steering wheel and looked into the distance. "So...would you want to remember that life? If you could?"

"Of course not. It's bad enough that I know it happened. Why would I want to remember more of it, beyond as an object lesson to myself?"

Bruce started up the cart again, very gently this time, as if it carried something very breakable. "No reason."

 **The Fourteenth Hole:**

Bruce had to give credit where it was due: the man obviously thought he was a master manipulator. Not once in fourteen holes had Clark used an opportunity to touch, fondle, caress, or rub up against Bruce. There had been plenty of opportunities, too. Since the second hole he hadn't even referenced the fact that he clearly thought Bruce was just dying to jump into bed with him after the match was done. Classic reverse psychology at this point. The Kryptonian was probably gloating to himself that he'd gotten Bruce all worked up, that Bruce was dwelling endlessly on what Clark planned to do with him, do to him, how he intended to touch him. "Next time I'm taking more," was what he'd said. Bruce could hear the phrase in his ear as clearly as the moment he had first heard it. Over a month ago. Yes, Clark was definitely trying to make him think about these things by deliberately _not_ mentioning them, or touching him. At all.

Hah. He understood Clark too well for these simple tricks to work.

"I went to Wayne Manor a couple of months ago. When you weren't there." Clark sounded like he was making a confession, as he watched Bruce get ready to make a tricky putt.

"If I wasn't there, it must have been a short visit."

"Actually, I had tea with Alfred. He showed me your baby pictures."

 _"What?"_

"Mm-hmm. I especially liked the one of you naked on the bearskin rug."

Bruce missed his putt by a good three inches. "I'll have to have a talk with Alfred later."

"I just thought you should know. We actually had a very nice afternoon. He's a good man."

Bruce nodded absently. He wasn't sure why Clark thought talking about Alfred would make Bruce think about getting into bed with him--except for the obvious reference to seeing him naked, even just in baby pictures. Just how deep was this game Clark was playing?

After Clark sank his putt, they got back into the cart and headed toward the next hole. Bruce looked over to see Clark smiling at him. "What are you grinning about?"

"I'm just enjoying being with you. I've missed talking with you."

Bruce started the cart again. That damned hand was now _four_ inches away--increasing the distance the slightest bit to try and make Bruce worry that Clark wasn't going to follow through on his promise. Not that he was _worried_ about that, when he was still wondering how he was going to keep the Boy Scout _off_ of him.

The cart hit a bump and the hand retreated maybe another half-inch.

Oh, the man was _good._

 **The Eighteenth Hole:**

"So there's still no sign of your powers returning? And no one can figure out why?"

Clark watched Bruce take a couple of practice swings. "Not a bit. They say there's no real _reason_ they can find that they haven't come back. Maybe that psychologist was right after all."

"Psychologist?"

"They brought in a shrink who said that it was most likely a mental block rather than a physical block. That for some reason I've been suppressing my own powers."

"Why would you do that?"

"Oh, she hinted at the usual psychobabble reasons. Wanting to shuck responsibilities, guilt over Conner's death. But I feel responsible _anyway,_ whether I have 'powers' or not. I feel sick every time I turn on the television and see some accident I could have prevented. No, I think it's simpler and deeper than that."

"I so love it when you psychoanalyze yourself. Do continue."

Clark didn't rise to the bait. "Honestly? I wonder if maybe...maybe I thought I'd have more of a chance with you if I didn't have powers. If I was just an ordinary man."

Bruce stopped in mid-swing and looked at Clark. "Any entirely hypothetical 'chance' you might delusionally imagine 'having' with me has-- _would have--_ nothing to do with whether you have powers or not." He hit the ball with rather more force than was strictly necessary and went back to the cart, gesturing for Clark to take his turn. "And you're not an 'ordinary man,' with or without powers," he added reluctantly. Now Clark was trying to make him feel sorry for him, playing the pity card? The man really had no shame at all.

Clark shaded his eyes and looked off toward the distant green. "There's really only one power I actively miss having, though. Flight. Feeling the wind all around me, the feeling of freedom up there in the sky, it was always like a dream come true. I swear I never got tired of it, not once. I do miss that. I miss the sky."

Bruce was half-listening, thinking about Clark's transparent manipulations. Trying to make him feel bad for the Boy Scout so he'd want to cover him with kisses, turn that sad face to ecstatic, rapturous, drunk with how Bruce could make him feel..."Yeah, me too."

"Huh?"

"...'Of course you do.' That's what I said. Of course you do."

Back in the cart, Clark looked at the score card, tallying the score. "Looks like you win by three strokes, Bruce."

Bruce kept his mouth shut. Now Clark was just being ridiculous.

 **: : :**

The final ceremonies and wrap-up went smoothly and uneventfully, and Clark and Bruce walked together toward their respective rental cars. The sun was just starting to set.

They stopped at Bruce's little convertible. Bruce braced himself for the inevitable onslaught, the insistence that they spend the night together in some motel somewhere. Clark would expect that by now he'd be absolutely desperate with lust, longing for all that "take me, possess me, make me yours" nonsense. Bruce ran over all the wonderfully cutting things he could say to reject Clark's offer. There were so many to choose from. Or maybe Clark wouldn't give him a chance to say anything at all, just--

"Well, I've got a late flight back to Metropolis to catch, big staff meeting tomorrow morning. I'm glad I got to spend some time with you. Maybe I'll see you again soon?" And then Clark was walking away.

Walking away!

Bruce pulled his sunglasses off as a twinge of what must have been relief but felt like fury lanced through him. "Hey!" He called after Clark's retreating back. "I thought you said that next time you were taking more?"

And then he would have happily bit his own tongue off to have the words back, because he had meant them to sound caustic and challenging, and instead they had sounded--

Clark turned back around, blank and utter astonishment on his face. "I think--" he started, then broke off. The surprise melted into a bemused, dazzling smile. "I _think_ I just did," he said happily.

He covered the distance between them in four quick strides and halted before Bruce, still beaming. He held out his hand with the fingers splayed, almost touching the other man's chest, like there was something there too precious to dare reach for. "Next time. No matter what, Bruce." It sounded like an apology and a promise and a question all at once.

"Damn you," snarled Bruce.

Clark dropped his hand and cocked his head slightly, his eyes slightly distant as if he were translating Bruce's words from one language to another. The translation seemed to satisfy him and he focused fully on Bruce again. "Okay then...next time." He leaned forward and kissed the other man, and if Bruce's arms went around him tightly, well, that was because he needed to keep his balance or the clumsy oaf would have knocked him over, right?

After Clark broke off the kiss and left, still smiling, Bruce stood there for a while longer. He went over the day's conversation in his head, and eventually he couldn't help laughing.

Oh, he'd been manipulated, all right. And by a world-class manipulator, too.

He got into the car, still chuckling slightly, and started the drive back to his empty Orlando hotel room.


	22. Still Life with Pearls and Corpses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months after his parents' death, a young Bruce Wayne tries to adjust to life with his new family.

Bruce stood before the easel. He was holding a palette of paints, thick and oily, in one childish hand, and a brush in the other. The canvas was already black. He paused before it a moment and started to paint onto the black.

The scene he painted was from about six months ago. An alley. Two bodies. A small boy on his knees, his shoulders slumped, staring out from the canvas. Bruce carefully painted razor-sharp pain into the lines of his face. The light from the streetlamp was an acid yellow that cut the eyes. His mother's coat was a green so deep and sharp that it hurt to look at. His father's suit was the gray of bitter ashes. The boy's eyes were a searing blue of agony, sword-sharp and pure.

He painted each scattered pearl with a white of hallucinatory intensity. Each pearl seemed lit from within, incandescent.

Bruce paused again. Something was missing. What was it? One color. He looked down at his palette, but there was no red on it. How could he paint this scene without the red? Fortunately, he realized, his brush was conveniently equipped with a blade on the other end. He turned the brush around and brought the blade across his left wrist. Crimson welled out. He let it pool in his cupped hand, and dipped the brush into it. Vermilion streaked the painting, pooling around the preternaturally sharp edges of his parents' shoes, the insanely white pearls, the cobblestones etched with screams.

There wasn't going to be enough red.

He flipped the brush around and put the silver blade to his other wrist.

"It will never be enough," said a calm voice behind him. He turned to see Eve Aries, Saturn Queen, the woman who was trying to take his mother's place. He knew she hadn't been there a second ago. "Even your other wrist won't be enough."

"I can use my heart too," he said, tapping his chest with the blade.

Eve smiled. "But you don't have to, Bruce." She walked up to the painting. "We can just touch up the edges a little bit...so..." She reached out with long, slender fingers, and the knife-sharp edges of painted pain softened and blurred just a little. Some of the red ebbed away, and the color faded to a less vivid shade. Her fingers stroked the painted boy's face and a little of the agony left it, just enough to make it bearable.

Bruce stared at the painting, gone from hyper-realistic to impressionistic. He grabbed Eve's hand. "If you can do that--you can erase it all! You can get rid of all of it, and I can be happy and you can be my real family, you can be my real mother and I can love you with all my heart!" Eve looked at the little boy, his eyes turned up to her. "Please?" he whispered. The blood from his wrist continued to tick quietly onto the floor.

Eve crouched beside the boy and put her fingers around the cut wrist; the wound healed. She sighed and sat down next to him. "I'd...like to, Bruce. Very much. But we all have to make sacrifices to make this a better world, and this is yours and mine. You have to keep that pain to make you into the man that we--that the world--needs you to be." She stared at the painting. "I'm sorry."

Bruce looked up at the painting too. He had painted a watch on his father's wrist. The watch reminded him of something, something he kept meaning to ask her at night and forgetting in the morning. "Why didn't Cosmic King come five minutes earlier? He could have saved my parents. I would have been happy to help you after you saved them." He already knew the answer. She had just told him. He stood up and stood between her and the painting. "You need me, but I don't think you really love me. You let my parents die." She just looked at him. "I should hate you for that."

She bowed her head. "You could, Bruce. You could wake up and hate us. And then you'd be alone. You wouldn't have a family. You wouldn't have Clark." She watched his eyes darken.

"Will you make me forget that you let them die?"

She shook her head. "I can't risk changing too much about your psyche, Bruce. You really are...terribly important. I don't dare do much more than soften the edges of your grief, so you can function and love. No. If you want to stay with us, you'll have accept at some level that it was necessary for your parents to die. You have to do it yourself, Bruce."

He sighed, sounding much older than his eight years. "I'll try. I think can do it."

"I know you can. You've been doing it, night after night, every night since you came to live with us." Her voice sounded oddly far away now. "I'll keep helping you for as long as it takes, Bruce...my son..."

Bruce rolled over in his sleep, murmuring slightly to himself.

 **: : :**

Bruce woke up with the sun streaming in through the curtains. Clark was bouncing up and down next to the bed, peeking onto the top bunk. "Happy birthday, Bruce!"

Bruce rubbed his eyes. What was that dream he had? For a moment he grasped at it, but it retreated from him. Yawning, he crawled out of his bunk and got dressed.

Clark gamboled before him into the large living space. "Happy birthday!" chorused his parents as they entered the room. They were sitting in front of three packages. Lightning Lord smiled and clapped as they entered the room. Saturn Queen leaned up against Mekt. Her face was gray and she looked tired, but she was also smiling. Cosmic King handed a package to Bruce and a package to Clark.

"We know it's Bruce's birthday, but we have presents for both of you, first." Bruce opened his package and black silk spilled out over his hands. He shook the cloth out, to find himself holding a black and gray outfit, supple and smooth. He ran his hands over it, feeling it run like dark water under his fingers, soothing.

Clark was grinning and holding up a similar costume in brilliant red and blue. He eyed Bruce's handful of cloth. "I think yours is cooler."

A small grin. "I do too." Clark whacked him on the shoulder, his good mood unshaken.

Bruce's fingers traced the stylized bat symbol on the chest. "Why a bat? I don't like bats." _They scare me,_ he thought but did not say.

"When you're an adult, you'll use fear to stop bad people. They won't dare to do bad things with you around," said Laevar. Bruce nodded; he could understand that.

Clark was stripping down in the middle of the room to put his costume on. _"He's_ not going to be using fear, is he?" It seemed rather implausible.

Eve stifled a laugh behind her hand. "Clark will be rather fearsome when he grows up--" Bruce raised a dubious eyebrow, watching his brother hop around trying to put on the slippery costume, "--but you're right, he will tend to inspire other emotions instead." Clark, having gotten the outfit on, was jumping off the stairs holding his cape up like wings, making "whooshing" noises. "Eventually." Laevar and Mekt started chasing Clark about the house, pretending to be in an air battle with him, to his merry shrieking. Saturn Queen smiled at them, then turned back to Bruce.

"I have something else that's just for you." She handed him a smaller package. He opened it to find a set of oil paints, all the colors laid out neatly: Viridian, azure, turqoise, scarlet.

He looked up and smiled slightly. "Thank you, mother."

The corner of her mouth tilted upward a little. "Paint me something pretty."


	23. October:  Cristo Redentor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark receives some airplane tickets and finds out that "taking more" is more tricky than it seems.

The only really bad thing about pursuing Bruce all over the world was the airplanes. Even though Clark was flying first-class this time, he was still trapped in a metal tube, unable to control his path, unable to even feel the wind in his hair. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.

All right, upon reflection, there were other bad things about chasing Bruce. Like the nagging question of exactly _how_ the man had known so much about his personal sexual quirks back in Tokyo. It had been a lot more than lucky guessing. Bruce had done things that Clark had never done before, only dreamed fervently of doing. He had done things that Clark had _never even dreamed of doing,_ but which had felt so good, so _right,_ that Clark had dreamed of them constantly since. He had known exactly how to drive Clark wild in every possible way. It had been _fantastic_ , of course, and Clark wasn't usually one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but...

How _had_ the man known all that?

Clark tried to banish the idea from his head that perhaps this was all part of some bizarre experiment on Batman's part. He could see the file in the computer: _**Sexual Behavior in the Kryptonian Male.** Results skewed by small sample size, but at least the subject was selected at random._

Clark rubbed his forehead. He was getting as paranoid as _Bruce,_ now.

He very much hoped the security on that file was more reliable than the security on, say, the files on how to incapacitate the JLA.　

Whatever was motivating Bruce in this dance, someone else had apparently thought it was worthwhile to make airplane tickets appear in Clark's mailbox. Clark was pretty sure it hadn't been Bruce himself. If he had had to give code initials, he might have guessed N, or O. Or perhaps A. But he had a guardian angel somewhere, which gave him some confidence.

He looked out the window as the plane began to make its final approach. Silver resorts glittered on a white beach, while on the hills around the city the _favelas_ sprawled haphazardly, ramshackle ochre slums piled up on the slopes. Glowing in the tropical morning sunlight, Christ the Redeemer stood on the mountain behind the city, stretching his arms out to bless or embrace it.

Clark Kent descended into Rio de Janeiro.

 **: : :**

He didn't manage to track Bruce down until dusk was falling across the city. The detective was leaning against a wall in the Ipanema neighborhood, wearing an "I [heart] NYC" t-shirt and Bermuda shorts. He should have looked ridiculous. Clark's mouth went utterly dry and his knees felt wobbly. The chaotic noise of the city faded out around him.

Dear God in heaven, how much he wanted this man.

It was no good hoping Bruce hadn't spotted him, so Clark simply walked up to him. "You look eminently...muggable," he said, looking Bruce up and down.

Bruce returned the look levelly, taking in Clark's brilliantly-patterned Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. "I could say the same about you."

Clark smiled. "I meant by me, actually."

Bruce merely raised an eyebrow and continued to stare at Clark. Clark felt himself blushing. He blushed much more easily without superpowers, for some reason. Less control over his autonomous systems?

Or maybe he just got embarrassed more easily.

He leaned up against the wall with Bruce, trying to match his easy grace. Bruce scanned the crowd. The last time he had leaned up against a wall with Bruce in Tokyo he had been drunk. This time he was sober, but it felt much the same. It had been a month since he had kissed Bruce last, two months since had felt Bruce's hands tangle in his hair as Clark sucked on him. Four months since that night in the hotel room, both of them fully naked and up against each other, Clark's body and mind as open as the wind and sky to Bruce.

He didn't know exactly how much longer he could go without having Bruce that way in his turn. He wanted--God, how he wanted--to make the other man whimper his name and beg for more of him. He wanted to make Bruce abandon that iron self-control for just a moment and be vulnerable, as vulnerable as Clark always felt around this dangerous, intense man.

He realized he was breathing heavily and his eyes were half-closed, the city falling away around him as he thought about the man at his side. _"Iron self-control." I'd be happy to have "aluminum self-control" right now._

"I was just about to accidentally wander into the _favelas_ like the stupid tourist I am," murmured Bruce. "There's a new gang working there with some suspicious connections to Gotham, that I need to reconnoiter." He looked over at Clark. "You'd be better off not coming with me."

"I'll go with you."

The good humored near-flirtation was gone from Bruce's face. "Don't."

"You plan on stopping me?" If Bruce was going somewhere dangerous, Clark wanted to have his back _and besides, danger always whetted the edges of Bruce's sexual appetite, made him voraciously hungry for Clark_ the hell? Where had that thought come from? That didn't sound like his Bruce at all. Clark shook his head energetically and almost missed Bruce slipping away from him and down the street. "Oh no you don't, you broody bastard," Clark muttered and headed after him.

Bruce felt Clark pull up next to him as they reached the borderlands where the high-rent district of Ipanema abruptly veered into the winding maze of the _favelas_. The sun was almost down now and two brightly-dressed American tourists were going to be extremely conspicuous. Bruce gritted his teeth. Clark shouldn't be here. He felt painfully, preternaturally aware of the other man by his side, his flip-flops making ludicrous noises, his mouth-- _kissable mouth_ \--set irritably. He should turn back, but if he turned back now it would look like he was anxious to get into bed with Clark, too anxious to get his work done. Bruce's shoulders twitched. He kept walking.

Crowds of people ebbed and flowed around them. It happened so gradually and skillfully that even Bruce didn't notice it for a bit. The crowd was pushing the two of them apart, little by little. Clark was a foot away, then three, then ten. Bruce turned to try and make his way back to the other man, but the flow of traffic made it difficult. He chased after the reporter.

The alleys became more and more narrow. Bruce found himself surrounded by a gang of kids, most of them no more than teen-agers, grinning predatorily at him. He saw Clark's ridiculous shirt disappear around a corner. One of the kids pulled out a switchblade. Where was Clark? Where the hell was Clark?

A gunshot.

From the next alley.

No.

The gang knew death when they saw its eyes. They scattered.

 **No.**

 **: : :**

Clark reached out and took the gun out of the child's trembling hands. The kid wasn't more then ten years old. He had missed by yards. He looked at Clark, his eyes wide and frightened, then turned and bolted further down the alley just as Bruce came around the corner. Clark caught a glimpse of Bruce's eyes and involuntarily caught his wrist as Bruce tried to run by him. "It's just a kid, Bruce."

Bruce shook off Clark's hand and wheeled to go down the alley again.

"Let him go! He's just a _child!"_

Bruce turned on Clark. "What the hell does that have to do with it? He tried to kill you! _He tried to kill you!"_ His hands knotted in Clark's garish shirt and he stared at Clark as if he couldn't believe Clark couldn't see the eminent logic of this statement. "I have to--I can't--"

"He missed me, Bruce. I'm fine. I'm not hurt. I'm fine." Clark pulled the clip out. "There was only one bullet." He slipped the empty gun into his back pocket, reached out and put his hands on Bruce's shoulders. "See? I'm fine. Everything's all right. We're safe. We're both fine."

Bruce stared at him a moment more, his breath coming hard and every muscle in his body tense.

Then he kissed Clark like a snake striking, hard and fast. Teeth clinked and Clark tasted blood. Bruce's hands were unbuckling his belt and pulling down his clothing with ruthless efficiency, grinding his hips against Clark and clawing at his back to get him closer, closer. Clark gasped and grabbed at something to keep his balance but there wasn't anything, just Bruce's hand stroking him, slippery and cold, and a corner of Clark's mind was gibbering _He keeps lube in his pocket just in case I show up?_ but most of him was burning and wanting and he had waited too long and couldn't think clearly anymore, it was all going so fast and it didn't matter, it didn't matter. Then Bruce was pivoting and putting one hand on the filthy corrugated-steel wall, undoing his own clothes with the other, baring his teeth over his shoulder at Clark and pushing up against him urgently. "Just--just--" he nearly stammered, reaching back to grab at Clark's legs, drag him closer, as if he could force Clark into him somehow.

Clark was all heat and light and want and _"No,"_ God it would be so good to finally take Bruce, _"No,"_ like he had dreamed of, like he **deserved,** and _"No!"_ Clark shoved at Bruce, who fell against the wall on his forearms.

Bruce dragged a gasping lungful of air and glared over his shoulder at Clark, "Come on, you fucking coward! What's your problem? You don't want it? I thought you were going to _take it!"_ His eyes were red like he had been weeping, but there were no tears, just vitriol.

"Stop it!" Clark reached out and tried to shake Bruce's shoulders, the scruff of his neck, but his hands just slipped on corded muscle. He was shaking with fury, hardly even knowing what he was saying. "I'm not going to let you turn this into a soulless, dirty fuck against a wall just so you keep pretending it doesn't matter! Because it does matter! It does matter!" He was yelling now, as if volume and desperation could somehow make what he was saying true. He added, hating how his voice suddenly became small and unsure, "...doesn't it?"

Abruptly, so abruptly that Clark couldn't respond, all the tension and anger went out of Bruce's body. He sagged down onto his knees away from Clark, his hands limp at his sides, down onto the ground strewn with broken bottles and metal.

Clark didn't know what was going on. He had no idea what was wrong with Bruce, but he was hurting and Clark couldn't bear it. He pulled his clothes on roughly and crouched next to Bruce, who was staring straight ahead as if seeing nightmares. He put an arm across the now-unresisting shoulders. "Bruce, please, you'll cut yourself, you'll hurt yourself." He pushed some broken glass a little further from Bruce's hands and knees, feeling helpless. "We have to get you out of here, come with me, come on." He tried to lift the other man. With super-strength it would have been easy, but now he could barely get Bruce upright and leaning on him. He pulled Bruce's clothes on, speaking nearly at random, like he was soothing a frightened animal or a child. "Come on, just stand up, that's it, don't worry, my friend, we'll get you somewhere safe, just stand up, lean on me, that's it, okay, walk with me, Bruce, my brother, this way, come on, that's it, just a little more..."

Together the two of them slowly made their way out of the dark alley and to Clark's hotel.

 **: : :**

Bruce was curled up on his side in the strip of shadow at the very edge of the double bed. Clark had gotten him to the bed, but he had turned his face to the wall and wrapped his arms around himself, shutting the other man out.

Clark sat next to him on the bed, looking at his back. Twenty minutes passed in silence, then forty. An hour. Finally Clark cleared his throat.

"I think I'm getting tired of 'taking' as a verb. I'm going to try something else. Tell me to shut up when you've had enough."

He spoke, dropping words into the silence like stones into water. He couldn't see where the ripples went. He talked about the first time he had met Batman, the first time he had met Bruce Wayne, how they had both made him feel, and how he had felt when they turned out to be the same man. He talked about all the times they had saved each others' lives and how he had learned to respect and trust and admire this man of duality, of contradiction, of passion. He described the moment he had realized he wanted Bruce, there on the balcony in Metropolis, so long ago now. How he had denied it to himself, even while knowing he couldn't bear to be parted from him. How empty his life had been without Bruce's presence in Gotham, his dark star to the north gone, his compass broken.

He talked about Lois and how they had drifted apart. How he had realized abruptly one night, in the middle of kissing her, that he was imagining Bruce's lips instead. The mad rush of half-conscious desire that swept him away in Tokyo, and how Bruce had made him feel that night. He tried to keep his voice steady, as if he was telling a story. Were Bruce's shoulders relaxing, just the slightest bit? The two long months of searching and wondering, how he had started almost to make a joke of it to himself. How hard it had been to walk away from Bruce, in Hollywood and then in Orlando. How much he had regretted both those times in retrospect.

He talked until his voice started to go hoarse, an hour, maybe more. Eventually he stopped to take a breath and Bruce's voice came out of the shadow. "Clark. What exactly are you hoping to achieve with this confessional?"

He couldn't help it, he felt himself grinning at the sound of Bruce's voice. "Actually, I was hoping eventually you'd let me make love to you just to try and shut me up."

Bruce rolled over onto his back and looked at Clark, his face opaque. "Would that work?"

"I can't promise you anything. But it might be worth a try."

Bruce didn't smile, but some indefinable change crossed his face. "I suppose I would try just about anything at this point."

"My goodness, you do know how to make a man feel wanted." The banter was safe and comfortable.

A long, level look. "Clark. I want you." And safe and comfortable was gone again, swept away before a wildfire of desire that left Clark shaking as he moved to fit his body along the line of Bruce's body, where it belonged.

Bruce caught his hand and held it delicately, feeling the tremor in it. He pulled the hand to his mouth and kissed the wrist, his eyes closing for a moment. "Coward," he whispered.

"God, yes." Clark curved his hand to fit along Bruce's face, brushing one winged eyebrow on the way. He looked at the face of the man he...cherished, he respected, he adored. He knew he had no right, after failing with Lois, to use the word others might use. It was even possible, as an alien, he couldn't even feel the human emotion at all. But he knew, looking at Bruce's solemn face now, that he valued this man's soul above his own happiness, his own life, his own sanity. For now, that was enough.

He leaned forward and kissed the hollow of Bruce's throat; the other man arched against his lips. So softly Clark could barely hear it, Bruce said, "I'm a coward too."

Clark couldn't even imagine how to respond to such a statement, so he merely slid his mouth up Bruce's neck to taste behind his ears, kiss his temples and then the sharp slope of his eyebrows, the delicate eyelids. By the time he got to Bruce's mouth he was dizzy again with the salty taste of sweat, the texture of skin beneath his lips. Bruce made an inarticulate sound and opened his mouth to Clark immediately, a wordless invitation that Clark couldn't possibly resist. He simply kissed Bruce for a long time, savoring the feel of his mouth, the way the other man's breath came faster. He was making Batman breathless.

He was making _Bruce_ breathless.

Little by little, Clark got them out of their costumes. The tourist t-shirt, the Bermuda shorts, the silly Hawaiian shirt, all ended up on the floor beside the bed until they were just themselves, Clark and Bruce. Bruce mostly let Clark undress him, watching him and worrying his lower lip as arousal came and went in waves across his face. Clark watched his face carefully as he moved his hands over that beautiful, strong body, the shoulders and chest and stomach, noting what elicited the strongest reactions.

If he ever got the chance to do this again, he wanted to do it better next time.

Every time.

If.

He ran his hands down Bruce's thighs, feeling the muscles, the rough hair, moving toward the feet until he realized there was tackiness under his hands. He looked away from Bruce's face to see that the other man's shins were marked with dozens of tiny recent cuts from the rubble of the alley. Partly-dried blood, grime, and bits of glass covered Bruce's lower legs. Clark looked at Bruce's blood on his hands, his mind blank. He heard himself make a small sound.

Carefully he got off the bed and backed toward the bathroom. "Wait here. Don't go." Bruce snorted slightly, but didn't move while Clark ran hot water and returned with a steaming washcloth. He wiped the blood and dirt off of Bruce's legs with gentle strokes and somehow found himself talking again.

"Bruce. Bruce. Bruce." At first he couldn't say anything but the name, over and over again, like a talisman against pain. "Bruce. I don't know what's _wrong_ , but you can't go on like this. You have to stop it. Because I...I can't bear it. I can't bear to see you hurt. I'd never ask you to be happy, I'm not totally delusional, but I want you to be...to be..."

He didn't know what he wanted Bruce to be, with "happy" ruled out. Bruce's legs were clean now, the little cuts just red lines across his skin. Clark bent his head to kiss each one. "Just be with me," he whispered.

"Clark." He looked up again; Bruce was looking at him and smiling, a tight smile that looked more pained than anything else. "Honestly, Clark, I...I don't know if I can wait much longer without just jumping you."

"Oh." Clark shifted to fit himself up against Bruce again. The other man started to roll over, but Clark caught his shoulder to keep them face-to-face. "This way. Please?" Bruce gnawed his lip again, but stayed where he was. Clark suddenly remembered the lubricant and started to look around, but before he could move away Bruce was holding up the little tube he had palmed while Clark removed his clothing.

"Are you sure _you're_ not the Boy Scout?" Clark teased as he took the tube away. Bruce chuckled a little, a chuckle that turned into a gasp as Clark slipped slick fingers gently into him. That small sound ignited Clark's lust again and he knew that neither of them could wait any longer. He paused a final time, hot and poised and desperate. "I've never done this before." He wasn't sure if it was an apology or a gift of sorts, but Bruce looked pained again.

"You have _no idea_ how much I wish you wouldn't keep saying things like that." He reached out and pulled Clark gently to him, closer and closer, until Clark felt like he couldn't bear it an instant longer, he was on fire and needed it so much. "You trust everyone else in the world, try trusting yourself for a change, Clark."

Clark pushed forward as gently as he dared; Bruce's face went utterly, beautifully still for a moment. Then he simply said "Ah," one syllable full of wonder and joy, and Clark wasn't the least bit uncertain any more.

They were both too tightly wound--too aching with unfulfilled need--for the actual act to last very long, but Clark lived every moment as fully as he could. He drank in Bruce's face, the indescribable emotions that played across it like light across water, until the moment the other man's climax threw his head back and clenched his hands in Clark's hair. Bruce said nothing until that moment, and then simply moaned Clark's name, his voice like every dream of ecstasy Clark had ever had, and he followed Bruce like he always did and always would.

As he pulled himself back together from wherever he had been, Bruce leaned over and kissed him very gently. "It was perfect." He paused and kissed him lightly at the corner of each eye. "You're perfect."

Clark looked at his face for a long moment. Then he sighed and gave Bruce a small smile. He got up and went into the restroom. He turned on the water and washed his hands, taking his time, soaping them carefully, leaving the water running loudly. He looked at himself in the mirror, leaned forward and rested his head on the glass for a few moments.

Then he went back into the hotel room. He pulled on a pair of briefs and sat for a while on the edge of the bed, listening to the night sounds of Rio outside his window. He laid down and tried to go to sleep.

 **: : :**

Bruce Wayne walked through the streets of Rio de Janeiro like a ghost. He tilted up his head to look at the sky. Stars glittered wanly through the city lights, but he didn't see them. He saw Clark Kent slumped against an alley wall, blood on his chest. He saw himself smashing a child against a wall in one swift motion. He saw himself with a gun raised, pointing at the back of a man's head. He saw himself killing enemies, strangers, friends. Clark Kent's body.

The city moved around him and he moved through it, untouched. On the hills beyond the city, washed in the silver light of the full moon, Christ the Redeemer stood, white arms outstretched to try and take in all the world's pain.

Clark was right.

He couldn't keep going on this way.

He had to stop it.

He would.


	24. Nobody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and Superman get a surprise visit from our world's Booster Gold. Hilarity does not ensue.

_I'm Nobody! Who are you?  
Are you—Nobody—Too?  
Then there's a pair of us!  
Don't tell! they'd advertise—you know!_

Booster Gold dodged a policeman and scrambled for the door. "Skeets, where the hell's the Time Sphere?" he hollered at the little hovering robot. "I can't remember where I put it!" He blocked another flying policeman and made it into the street. Civilians scattered as the flamboyant superhero in gold and blue charged past them. "Skeets!"

The gleaming robot darted in front of him. "I believe it's this way, sir."

"Have I mentioned it's good to have you back, Skeets?"

"No sir, I don't believe you have."

Booster looked back. They seemed to have lost the police. "Well, remind me to mention it sometime."

"Yes sir."

The sky was crackling with some kind of strange magnetic storm as they found the Time Sphere. Booster patted Skeets as he settled into the vehicle, reassuring himself. With the information stored in this little guy, he'd be able to go back to the past and become the toast of the Age of Heroes. With his help, Batman would defeat Brother Eye and stop the monster created by Maxwell Lord. And Booster Gold would finally be as famous as he deserved to be! Not just some nobody with a power suit and a flight ring. Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman would be so impressed, they'd make him a founding member of the new JLA. It wouldn't just be a Trinity anymore, it'd be a....Fourity! Quaternity! Whatever you called a group of four heroes. Four very cool heroes. He'd be able to stop crimes before they happened at very little risk to himself, he'd be the greatest hero ever

 _and no one would ever hurt his friends again and_

\--and the _endorsements,_ baby! Cash enough to live comfortably forever! They'd probably dedicate a television channel just to his exploits: "The Booster Gold Network! All Booster, All the Time!"

Booster Gold came out of his reverie and leaned over to hit the sequence of buttons that would take them back to the twenty-first century, but the little robot interrupted him. "Sir, the electro-magnetic radiation is causing some odd fluctuations in the Sphere's readings. I wouldn't start the process yet."

Booster looked down the alley to see a crowd of law enforcement types start pouring around the corner. They didn't look very pleased with him. He continued to hit buttons. "No choice, Skeets."

"But sir--!"

"No time, Skeets!" He slapped the final lever and felt the thrumming of the Time Sphere resonate through his bones, taking him away to where fame and fortune awaited him.

The first thing he noticed as the time machine re-materialized was that they didn't seem to be on the moon. Okay, they were obviously slightly off. He was in an office building somewhere. A cityscape stretched out beyond it, but he didn't look at it closely. There in the middle of the room were Superman and Batman. Booster Gold hopped out of the machine. His recent anger at Batman dissolved into relief at the sight: real heroes, ones who would know how to use the information he had and who would reward him for it. "I'm in time, great!" As Batman strode toward him, Booster's eyes turned past the two reassuringly familiar figures and saw a statue on the skyline.

A statue of--

Of--

"Uh...Skeets?"

Batman halted with his cowl a few inches from Booster's face. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. Booster felt something poking his stomach. He looked down.

Batman was sticking a gun into his midriff.

Batman. With a _gun._

 _"Skeets?"_

The little robot made a hideous buzzing noice, emitted a shower of sparks, and fell with a thunk onto the floor.

 **: : :**

Batman crouched in a sliver of shadow in the interrogation room, looking menacing and feeling discouraged. The difficulty with torture as an interrogation technique, he mused glumly, was that it only worked if the subject had enough intelligence to order their thoughts and figure out what the interrogator needed to know. The...person...on the table had taken one look at Batman hovering over him and started talking immediately. However, sorting out the babble was proving quite difficult. Stories mixed and jumbled together with no coherent structure. The man seemed to have witnessed earth-shattering events in the so-called "Age of Heroes," and yet never seemed to have understood half of what was going on around him. As a result, he might simply be constitutionally incapable of giving Batman the information he desperately needed to know. If only his technicians could get that robot online again! He was sure he could tease some answers out of that circuitry. But it and the time machine had ceased to function on arrival and even his most skilled help had been unable to get them started again. He wished he could get at them himself, but until the machines were online again his personal touch was needed here.

Batman stifled a sigh, turned it into a growl for the benefit of the man shivering on the table, and went over what he had learned so far. This "Booster Gold," real name "Michael Jon Carter," was from the future, but not _Batman's_ future. He was from the future of the _Age of Heroes,_ the age that his parents had assured him had ceased to exist with their efforts. And yet clearly some version of it continued to exist in some way. He was not at all pleased with that fact.

If he could figure out how to get into that robot or use that machine, perhaps he could keep the other world from encroaching on his world. His perfect world.

Superman's face appeared on a screen. "Still no word from our parents. They appear to be out of communication range still. I'll check in later if I get in touch with them." The screen went blank again.

"You two have _parents?"_ said the man on the table somewhat wildly. "You're...like... _brothers?"_ He closed his eyes tightly. "Oh, that is wrong. That is _so_ wrong."

Batman found himself next to the table, his hands itching with the desire to smash the sniveling fool's mouth in. "How dare you? _Do you have any idea who you are dealing with, here?"_

Michael had gone through fear and come out the other side at this point. _Please don't let him hit my mouth, I can't sell toothpaste with broken teeth...what am I thinking, the crazy bastard's going to kill me, and dead men sell no toothpaste..._ "Of course I know who you both are! I'm not an idiot! I'm a hero! I was there when Superman died, I tried to help him, I even named the thing that killed him, Doomsday, that was me who named it--" He broke off at the sound Batman made. His interrogator leaned over him.

"What. Did. You. Say?"

"Um," Michael couldn't remember for a moment. "I...named Doomsday?" he suggested weakly.

"Before that."

"That Superman died fighting Doomsday? He...he saved tons of people, and he died." Michael was going to add that of course he had come back, that the _real_ heroes never stayed dead, but he didn't have time. Face contorted with rage, Batman lifted him from the table and slammed him back down, down into blankness and pain.

Batman turned from the unconscious body on the table and toggled a switch. A man dressed in a gray technician's outfit appeared on the screen. "Have you got that robot up and running yet?"

"No, sir. It's future technology, very complicated."

Batman made a growling noise. "Call me the moment you have it functioning. It's of no use to me as it is now."

"Yes sir." The technician stepped back and made a crisp salute. "Hail the Sun and Moon."

Batman snapped off the screen and sighed. His parents had never mentioned that Clark died in the Age of Heroes. Died protecting the damn _sheep_ from some random threat. Clark was always the same.

Bruce would do anything in his power to stop that from happening.

 **: : :**

Michael was sitting alone in a cell, his knees pulled up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs. Booster Gold probably would have done something to get out of here, past the force field that shimmered in the doorway. But Booster Gold wasn't here. Booster Gold was a power suit and flight ring and robot and time machine, a pile of equipment in another room. Here it was just Michael, sitting in his underwear and waiting for this world's crazy evil Batman to come back and torture him.

There weren't any heroes in this world.

He was still sitting there and staring blankly ahead when a man came up to the door of his cell and rested on his haunches in front of it, looking inquisitively at Michael. He was dressed in a gray uniform, and his brown hair fell slightly into his eyes as he cocked his head to look at the cell's occupant.

Michael put his head down on his forearms. "Hi," he said indistinctly.

"Hi," said the technician. "So, you're the prisoner whose tech I've been assigned to get online? Where are you from?"

Michael sighed. "I'm from the future. I was trying to get some important information that will save the world back to my universe's Superman and Batman." When alarm flickered across the tech's face Michael added hastily, "Oh, in my world they're not like _these_ crazies at all! They're heroes in my world. They're the _good guys._ This place...this place is all messed up."

Reluctant admiration moved across the other man's face. "They're real _heroes?_ The Age of Heroes...it's not just a myth where you're from?" At Michael's nod, the man said, "And you're one of them, one of those heroes, protecting people and saving the world..." He looked at Michael with respect in his blue eyes.

Michael Jon Carter opened his mouth to tell this man that yes, he was a hero like Superman and Batman, to detail all his awe-inspiring exploits. Then he closed it. Opened it again. "I'm not a hero like them. I'm just some guy."

The tech smiled slightly, then seemed to reach a decision and stood up, dusting off his hands. "Well, nice to meet you, 'some guy.' I'm just some guy too." He moved to the side of the door and began working on something. "How's about we get you out of here and back to where you belong?" When Michael said nothing he popped his head back around the corner to take in the blond man's slack-jawed expression. He smiled again and moved back out of sight. "I'm better with machines than the boss thinks I am. I've had your little helper online for the last three hours. I haven't been able to decipher much of its code, and it refuses to talk to me, but I've seen enough to guess that if the Sun and Moon get their hands on it, it could be very bad news."

Michael had a guess about who the "Sun and Moon" might be. "If they catch you, they'll kill you."

A squawking electronic noise from beyond the cell; his erstwhile rescuer swore softly and ignored the statement.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I've worked for Batman for years and never dared anything beyond the most piddling bits of sabotage. But I'm helping you because it's the right thing to do. Do you need another reason?"

"I suppose you don't," muttered Michael, the emphasis on the pronoun just slight enough that he could avoid thinking about it.

The force field came down and Michael stepped into the hall, feeling acutely vulnerable in his underwear. The technician slapped him on the back; Michael winced. "Your stuff's this way, 'hero.'" He spoke the last word as a friendly jibe, but Michael winced again.

"Don't call me that," he muttered, but he followed the other man.

As they walked down the hall, Michael started to smile.

He had come up with a plan.

 **: : :**

Booster Gold snapped his goggles back into place while his rescuer tinkered with Skeets. "I notice your little friend here can actually control your suit?"

"Yeah, it's useful if I'm out cold."

"Or if you don't have a clue what you're doing, sir," piped up the robot. It was the first thing he had said since they entered the lab.

The technician patted the robot and laughed. "He sounds like a feisty little guy."

"Yeah, Skeets is a real asset," Booster tried to sound sarcastic, but he was in too good a mood to carry it off. He trotted over to the Time Sphere, which was now humming and ready. "Well, we'd better get out of here before the Dreadful Duo show up again." He swung himself into the driver's seat and looked over at the other man, standing just outside, making no move to follow. "What are you waiting for? We're getting out of here, we're going home!"

His rescuer brushed chestnut hair out of his eyes and shook his head.

"What the hell? You're not going to stay here!" Booster felt something like panic crawl up his spine and into his throat.

"Do you think I'm stupid? That was the first thing I checked when I got the Time Sphere running again, before I came to get you. If you try to bring over someone from this world to your world...it'll throw everything off again. You might not even make it back." The technician's jaw was set but his eyes were sad. "You'd never get the information to the heroes who need it. You can't risk it."

"The _hell_ I can't!" Booster Gold grabbed the other man's arm as if to drag him forcibly into the machine. "No way, Ted, no way! I'm not leaving you here!"

Ted Kord didn't ask how the time traveller had known his name. He smiled wistfully at the garish figure in the time machine. "Was I a hero, in your world?"

"The--" Booster's voice broke. He tried again. "The greatest, Ted! The greatest--"

"Skeets. Freeze his suit."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." The robot added more softly.

Booster Gold couldn't move. The damn suit kept him from moving! He could still talk, though, he could still say something that would convince Ted to come with him, something brilliant like Batman would or charismatic like Superman would... but when he opened his mouth all he could seem to say was "No."

"No, Ted, no, no, no, please, no..."

Ted tilted his head at the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. "They're coming." He leaned forward and brushed Michael's blond hair off his forehead, kissed him lightly on the brow. Then he hit the sequence of buttons necessary to send Michael away. He hit the last one just as the dark figure burst into the room, his gun raised to stop them. Ted didn't turn to face the gun. He kept his eyes on Michael.

Booster Gold felt the thrumming of the machine rattling his bones, blurring his eyes as if with tears, as the Time Sphere took him away, back to the Age of Heroes.

But the damn machine must still have been broken, because it left Michael Jon Carter behind, somehow, left him there in the room with Ted. Only Booster Gold made it through to the other side.

 **: : :**

Batman lowered the gun. The Time Sphere was gone, back to its own damned time and place, a time and place where Superman died and no one--no one!--saved him. Batman had failed.

He felt Superman come up behind him. His brother sighed. "I would have liked to find out more about the Age of Heroes," he said just a bit sadly.

"No. No, you wouldn't have." Batman scowled. _"Age of Heroes._ If that preening, vain, empty man was an example of a 'hero' from that world, I'm glad we have nothing to do with it." He walked over and nudged the body of the nameless tech with a contemptuous foot, then turned to leave the room.

"Pathetic."


	25. November:  The Art of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lessons from Sun-Tzu's "The Art of War" are applied where seen as necessary

_**Sun Tzu said: The art of war is of vital importance  
to the State.**_

 _  
**It is a matter of life and death, a road either  
to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry  
which can on no account be neglected.**   
_

Clark Kent opened the envelope to find round-trip tickets to London for the weekend. He sighed, looking at them. Oracle this time, or maybe Nightwing? Batman's little clan seemed to think he had infinite patience.

Just how much longer was he was willing to follow Bruce Wayne around the globe like a smitten puppy? Especially when Bruce kept pulling his damn disappearing act each time they got the least bit intimate.

Even as the irritated thought went through his mind, he already knew the answer. He'd follow Bruce to hell and back if there was ever any chance that the other man would...

He put the tickets away, not allowing himself to finish the thought, and began to pack. So much for the vaunted "Kryptonian pride." Perhaps he had lost that along with his powers. On the plus side, he reassured himself, it was still good to know that someone close to Bruce felt it was still worth the effort to buy him tickets.

 _**Forestall your opponent by seizing what he holds dear,  
and subtly contrive to time his arrival on the ground.**_

Bruce was sitting in the garden of the villa he and the boys were staying at, reading a book. Above him was a trellis covered with dead vines that would have provided some shade if there had been any direct sunlight. The sky was lowering and cloudy and the air was damp and chilly with coming rain.

He heard Clark coming along the pathway, crunching through fallen leaves. He knew the rhythm and pace of Clark's footsteps like fingerprints. He heard the other man stop, felt his gaze, and waited a moment before looking up and letting a little bit of surprise cross his face.

It wasn't that hard to look surprised, because as always he was surprised at what seeing Clark did to him. Standing there in his jeans and a wool jacket, hands stuffed in the pockets, a little smile on his face, the man managed to look ordinary and gorgeous at the same time, and Bruce's heart turned sideways. He put that reaction aside to examine later.

There'd be time for that when this was finished.

 _**All warfare is based on deception.**_

 _  
**Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable;  
when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we  
are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away;  
when far away, we must make him believe we are near.**   
_

_  
**Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder,  
and crush him.**   
_

Bruce was sitting on a bench reading a book, his brow drawn in concentration. He was wearing just a light jacket but didn't seem to be cold. Clark stood and watched him, wondering what was going through that quicksilver mind, how Bruce would respond to seeing him this time. If he could somehow find a way to see the morning sun on Bruce's sleeping face, he'd consider this trip an unqualified success.

Who was he kidding? He'd be happy for the chance to sit next to Bruce on that bench and talk for an hour.

Eventually the other man noticed his presence, the flash of surprise on his face quickly hidden by a smile that was somewhere between the facile playboy smile and the warm smile people saw so rarely.

"I hadn't expected to see you again so soon," Bruce said as Clark stepped nearer. "It's only been a week or two, not the apparently requisite month or two." He put the book aside and moved over on the bench a little to give Clark room to sit down.

"Well, it seems I just can't get enough of you." Clark tried to match Bruce's light, bantering tone, but he was pretty sure he hadn't. He dropped onto the bench, just close enough to get into Bruce's space a little more than he should. The corner of Bruce's mouth quirked.

"So it would seem."

 _**That general is skillful in attack whose  
opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skillful  
in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack.**_

Bruce made himself look up and meet those blue eyes, startling even behind the thick glasses. "Clark. You know, this has all been a lot of fun, but...I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about where it's all going. It's...a lot of fun. And that's all it is."

A pause. Clark raised his eyebrows in mock surpise, then leaned forward to nuzzle Bruce's neck. "Oh no, Bruce. You don't get out of this so easily. I'm not just going to let you chase me off with your big scary Bat routine."

Bruce felt Clark's lips on his neck, behind his ear, on his earlobe. He closed his eyes. Then he laughed, very gently. "I didn't say I wanted to 'get out of it,' Clark. Good Lord, no. Like I said, this has been an amazing ride so far, really. I just want to make sure we're both on the same page." Clark's warm mouth paused and he drew back, his eyes slightly narrowed. "I wouldn't want you to expect...more from this than is there.

I don't want you to get hurt, Clark."

 _**Indirect tactics, efficiently applied, are inexhaustible  
as Heaven and Earth, unending as the flow of rivers and streams;  
like the sun and moon, they end but to begin anew;  
like the four seasons, they pass away to return once more.**_

The last sentence, the way he said it...it rang true, somehow. Clark had to admit he was thrown off. He had known that at some point Bruce would tell him this couldn't continue, that was part of the game they were playing. But this wasn't a denial, it was a clarification. A redefinition. Clark went over the last six months in his mind. They certainly hadn't seemed like light entertainment to him. Why did everything have to be some kind of gambit with Bruce? It wasn't possible this had meant so little to him. It simply wasn't.

"So, you're saying this was all..." He couldn't seem to find the word to finish the sentence correctly.

"A lark? A vacation? No, no. I wouldn't put it that way." Clark was pretty sure those weren't the words he would have chosen. "But it has been a year off, to some extent. And now it's almost over, Clark. I'll be heading back to Gotham soon and I can hardly see you doing regular patrols with me in the Batmobile." He patted Clark on the knee. "For starters, I'm not even sure you'd fit. You're a big guy." Bruce smiled a little, then stood up.

"Well, it looks like rain. Maybe we should head in where it's warm, make ourselves comfortable?" He cast Clark a suggestive glance, then reached out to take Clark's wrist and pull him toward the villa. He frowned when Clark didn't budge. "Look, Clark. Don't take this the wrong way. We're not 'over' or anything. I just thought it was something I should make clear. I know I haven't always been the most straightforward man in the past, and I wanted us to understand each other."

 _**To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our  
own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy  
is provided by the enemy himself.**_

Like any other martial art, in argument you have to stay flexible, adapt to how the conversation is developing. Look for weaknesses, change your approach in response. No set plan can prepare for every contingency. Look for the opening and be ready. Clark was off-balance now, he could sense it. Just a bit, just enough to give Bruce an advantage that he could press. For a moment, Bruce felt a fierce happiness, fierce enough to burn, that Clark didn't remember their life together. Because there was no way Bruce could make him feel this doubtful if he had those memories. If he had those memories none of this could possibly work.

Besides, because Clark didn't have the knowledge of a whole life shared, this couldn't mean as much to him as it--as it might otherwise.

Clark stood up as well, looking at Bruce. His eyebrows were drawn together as if he were in pain, but his voice was level. "Before you treat relations between us so lightly, you might do well to remember that we still have to work together."

"Do we? Will we, in the future? Are you sure, Clark? Because I don't see any sign right now that your powers are coming back." A raindrop suddenly hit Clark's glasses; he flinched but didn't remove them. His hands bunched in the pockets of his coat.

"Why did you--why did you do any of this at all, then? If it means so little."

Bruce lifted an eyebrow. "If I remember correctly, you made the first move. And most of the moves after that." He eyed Clark appreciatively. "You're a handsome man, Clark, there's no denying that. I was hardly going to turn you away." He shrugged. "Maybe I just wanted to know what it was like when you weren't so damn invulnerable. When you were at the same level as the rest of us."

That one scored, and Bruce felt something twist under his ribcage. Could Clark possibly believe that Bruce had acted out of idle curiosity, could treat all this as an experiment, as _research?_ Could he really think that of Bruce? The look in his eyes said that he could. Damn him.

Damn them both.

 _**Rouse him, and learn the principle of his  
activity or inactivity. Force him to reveal himself,  
so as to find out his vulnerable spots.**_

This couldn't be happening. He never would have expected it would hurt so much to have someone _not break up with him._ To find out that what you had cherished so much was just a game, just fun...Clark seized on something, an image, broken glass.

"You didn't seem to be having a whole lot of 'fun' in Rio."

Bruce looked down. A couple of stray raindrops had caught in his hair and hung there, gleaming dully. "It's true, Clark." He sighed. "I have to admit I was starting to feel kind of guilty." He looked back up at Clark, meeting his eyes squarely. "I think back in Rio I realized for the first time how much this was all coming to mean to you. How seriously you took it." A sorrowful, almost pitying, look. "But Clark, you have to know...I mean, surely you understand how things will always have to stand between us? That kind of relationship--could that ever be possible between you and I, really?"

He shook his head, smiling affectionately. "I mean, Clark, come on--you're not even _human."_

 _**The quality of decision is like the well-timed  
swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy  
its victim.**_

 _  
**Therefore the good fighter will be terrible  
in his onset, and prompt in his decision.**   
_

In the silent moment between when he finished speaking and when Clark schooled his face to stillness again, Bruce realized something. He had been telling himself he was afraid that Clark would get injured: collateral damage in Batman's war. He had been telling himself that he was afraid that if Clark were wounded or worse Batman would lapse into a murderous darkness. Both of those fears were true and real.

But neither was what he had really been afraid of.

It was, he reflected bitterly, far too late to be having such moments of self-revelation.

Clark leaned forward and kissed him, urgently, desperately. Rain started to fall steadily around them. Bruce put his arms around Clark and kissed him back. It was okay to take pleasure in it, because it was the last. The last. Clark kissed him with all the fierce tenderness the man was capable of, as if he could somehow breathe his love into Bruce and make it part of him. The kiss ended and he gathered Bruce into his arms, burying his face in Bruce's hair.

"Tell me to leave now, Bruce." His voice was hoarse and flat.

Bruce made himself laugh, not the fake playboy laugh but as close to a real laugh as anyone could ever get from him. He swallowed hard. "Clark. Let's not make this a big melodramatic scene, please." _Two more._ "I don't _need_ you to leave. You can stay and we can have some fun, or you can go." _One more._ "It doesn't matter much to me either way."

Clark dropped his arms and stepped back so abruptly that Bruce stumbled forward a step. Rain streaked his face. He took a breath. Another. "Fine, Bruce. Fine." His face was calm, placid, both sorrow and anger washed away. "You win." Then he turned and left the garden, not looking back.

A curtain of rain blotted his figure from Bruce's view.

 **: : :**

Tim tapped on the window glass as Dick shuffled the deck of cards. "I still think you ought to go check on him. It started raining two hours ago and he hasn't come inside yet."

"You're the one who's so worried, you go check on him." Dick started to deal.

Tim rolled his eyes. "Come on, Dick, I'm serious." He scooped the cards up and held them away from Dick. "Go find him. Please."

Dick frowned at Tim, then at the chilly downpour outside. "Okay, okay." He grabbed a coat and umbrella and headed out to the bench where Bruce spent most of his afternoons reading lately.

As he drew near the bench, he could see Bruce sitting, looking down at his hands resting on his knees. Rain had soaked his clothing and drenched his hair. Dick came closer and reached out his hand. Bruce looked up and smiled.

Dick flinched backward, his hand dropping.

"I win," said Bruce Wayne. "I win."

 _**If you know the enemy and know yourself,  
you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.  
If you know yourself but not the enemy,  
for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat.  
If you know neither the enemy nor yourself,  
you will be imperiled in every battle.**_


	26. The Sun and the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce face Clark's fifteenth birthday, his developing powers, and the Kryptonian dream-ritual of Tarukor

_Three things cannot be hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.  
\--The Buddha_

Clark frowned and dodged a kick. "Tarukor? What's that?" He and Bruce were sparring on a tatami mat with their parents watching and giving pointers.

Lightning Lord was lying on the floor to better watch his sons' footwork. "It's a Kryptonian rite of passage. Semi-genetic, semi-cultural--that was a nice feint, Bruce. The night before the birthday that marks adulthood, Kryptonians spend a night in a hyper-real dream state, experiencing visions that usher them into full adult status."

Clark parried a blow from his brother, then attempted a throw, but Bruce danced out of the way, sticking out his tongue. "What kind of visions?"

"Bruce, don't taunt your brother. Apparently the visions can take many forms, but it's common for the dreamer to experience a whole imaginary lifetime of incredible detail and vividness."

"That's right," broke in Cosmic King from where he was lounging against the door, eating an apple. "That Kryptonian brat in the future, the one who called herself Kara. Didn't she claim that her whole time there was merely her Tarukor vision?" At Mekt's nod, Laevar took another thoughtful bite of his apple. Then his chewing slowed until he swallowed, looking annoyed. "Ah, grife."

Saturn Queen took the apple from his hand as she walked by. "What's the problem, Laevar?"

"I'm pretty certain I didn't remember any 'Kara' a few weeks ago." All three of them tilted their heads briefly, searching their memories. Then they sighed, almost in unison.

"Time travel," groaned Lightning Lord. "Boys, promise me you'll never get yourselves caught up in time travel. It'll really sprock up your head."

Bruce and Clark grinned at each other between feints. They had the most interesting parents in the whole universe. Clark's smile faded to a scowl. "Anyway, I don't want to do this 'Tarukor' thing. It sounds creepy."

"Unfortunately, you don't have a choice, Clark. All Kryptonians go through it on the equivalent of their fifteenth birthday, and yours is coming up next week. The best we can do is dig through our records, see what we can find out about it, and replicate the process as closely as possible for you."

Clark executed a smooth throw and pinned Bruce to the mat with one hand, then turned to glare at his father. "I don't like it."

"Son, you're almost an adult. Your powers have started to manifest themselves, and you're going to have to learn how to control them. You're a Kryptonian, and you have to remember that." Mekt's eyes went to the mat. "Let your brother up, Clark," he said softly.

Clark looked down to where he was still effortlessly, absent-mindedly holding Bruce to the mat with one hand. His brother was trying not to look like he was exerting all his strength to break free and failing. "Oh! I'm sorry, Bruce." He lifted his hand and Bruce sprang to his feet, breathing a little quickly.

Bruce arranged his gi and bowed abruptly to Clark, who bowed back more hesitantly . "Sparring with you hasn't been much fun since you got super-strength," Bruce said curtly. "And it's hardly useful to either of us. Might I suggest we train separately from now on?" He didn't wait for Clark's answer, turning and leaving the training room.

Clark ignored his parents' sympathetic looks. "I don't like it," he repeated sullenly to his father.

 **: : :**

It had been an uncomfortable week since then. Bruce wasn't ignoring Clark, per se. But their conversations were terse and businesslike, and Bruce had thrown himself into studying computer security for hours on end. Clark had little to do but fret about his upcoming birthday and the Tarukor ritual before it.

He stood on the balcony outside his room, overlooking the lights of New York City, and cautiously tested the limits of some of his new powers.

His hearing had been good most of his life, but about a year ago it had become preternaturally sharp. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Three floors away, he could hear Bruce working in the computer lab, his breathing, his heartbeat. He could hear fingers tapping on computer keys. A chair creaked as his brother leaned forward slightly. He heard Bruce sigh softly.

About six months ago he had started to be able to use x-ray vision. He opened his eyes and focused them carefully until he could see the people below in their cars, in the subway rushing below the ground. He didn't look for long, because he knew that x-rays could harm people. But before he de-focused his eyes, he couldn't help but turn to look inside the building, just for one moment. Bruce was leaning backwards in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Super-strength had manifested just a month ago. Now he could bend steel, lift cars, hold his brother to the ground as if he were a doll. His fingers met in the steel railing, distorting it like clay.

He looked down the eighty-six stories to the ground. Why couldn't he fly yet? His parents told him he'd have even more amazing powers soon: heat vision, cold breath, super-speed, flight.

He didn't care so much about the other powers, but he wouldn't mind being able to fly away right now.

 **: : :**

Bruce came into the bedroom to find Clark sitting on the bottom bunk, looking down at a model airplane in his hands. He tried to walk icily by his brother, but Clark met his eyes with a look that told Bruce conversation couldn't be postponed any longer. He sat down next to Clark with a feeling that was close to relief.

"I can't believe you still have that old thing," he said, indicating the airplane.

Clark twirled the propeller idly. "You remember it?"

"How could I forget? You were working on it the first night I came here. I told you it was stupid and stomped all over it."

"And then you punched me."

Bruce laughed, a little embarrassed. "Yeah. Great first meeting."

"Yeah, it was." Bruce hated it when he couldn't tell if Clark was being ironic or not. There was a long pause while Clark traced his fingers over the patched airplane. "I was so scared that night," he said softly, not looking at Bruce.

 _"You_ were scared? Why?"

"I'd grown up my whole life knowing that someday my brother would come. How he was so smart and brave and wonderful and important. I was so afraid that night. What if you didn't like me?"

Bruce cleared his throat. His cheeks felt hot. "That's a dumb thing to think, even for you." He saw the corner of Clark's mouth lift just a bit. "You're the most likable person on this stupid planet." The space between them suddenly didn't seem so large. Bruce reached out and gently took the model from Clark's hands, double-checking the old mended seams. He could do a better job now, he thought clinically. Next to him, Clark sighed.

"I wish...I wish we were _really_ brothers."

Bruce pondered. Then his face brightened. "We could be blood brothers. That's better than real brothers anyway."

Clark cast him an oddly unreadable glance. "You'd do that?"

"Huh? Why wouldn't I?" Bruce got up and started to rummage through his desk.

"You wouldn't mind having...you know, my blood in you?"

"Well, it doesn't count as blood brothers otherwise, Clark, and I did suggest it," Bruce said somewhat distractedly. He returned to the bed with a penknife. "Here we go." He handed the knife to Clark. Just cut the palm of your hand a little, and then I will, and then we put our hands together and promise to be brothers forever."

Clark hesitated.

"What's wrong? Come on, don't be a sissy."

Clark touched the blade to the palm of his hand. Pushed. Pushed harder.

Nothing happened. The knife dented the skin but wouldn't go through.

Clark looked at Bruce's face, his own stricken. "I meant to tell you...just this week..." his voice trailed off.

Bruce grabbed the little knife from Clark and put it to his brother's palm. He drew it across gently, then with more and more force until he was sawing viciously at Clark's hand, slashing the blade across the unmarked skin again and again. Then he threw the knife across the room with something like a sob, glaring at Clark.

"Stupid alien! No one can ever hurt you! I can't hurt you!"

Clark considered Bruce's words. There seemed to be one sense in which they were correct, and an unfoldingly infinite number in which they were incorrect.

Bruce was continuing his tirade, shaking slightly. "Why do you have to be different? Why can't you just stay like me? All these powers, rituals, magic dreams...what if you don't need me any more, why would a Kryptonian need some _human,_ what if you go fly away into space someday with our parents and leave me and I _never see you again?"_ He flinched as he finished, as if hearing his own words had caused him pain.

Clark sat next to Bruce for a while, listening to his heart pound. Then he got up and retrieved the penknife, taking his seat again. He handed the knife to Bruce. "Wait a second." Cautiously, biting his bottom lip a little, he drew his own fingernail across the palm of his hand until beads of blood welled up. He felt Bruce flinch again next to him. He looked at his brother. "Your turn."

Bruce tore his gaze away from the red drops in Clark's hand and cut his palm as well. He held his hand out.

"What do you need me to promise?" said Clark.

"Huh?"

"What do you need me to promise, to make you feel better? I'll promise anything."

Deep blue eyes blinked. "...promise me that you'll never leave me and never give up on me no matter what. _Ever."_

"Okay, but you have to promise me something too. Promise that you'll never be afraid of me or hate me because I'm not human."

Bruce frowned. "Why would you need me to promise that?"

"Please."

Bruce looked at Clark with his eyebrows up. "You don't really--"

"--Please. Just promise."

Bruce matched his palm to Clark's so the blood from their cuts mingled. Clark squeezed his brother's hand carefully, just tight enough to be comforting, not hard enough to hurt.

They promised.

 **: : :**

Clark sat on the round dais in the Watchtower, looking forlorn and lonely even though his family were all around him. Behind him the Watchtower windows stretched blackly, thick with stars. The information they had found said Tarukor should take place under as much starlight as possible, so here he was.

Bruce snorted. "You're going to enter a sacred, mystical, ritualistic Kryptonian dream-state...in plaid flannel pyjamas? Honestly, Clark."

Clark rubbed sweaty hands on the knees of his pyjamas, trying to soothe himself. The fabric felt warm and familiar under his hands. "I still don't think I like this. Can't we just go home?"

"Now, now," reassured his mother. "This is supposed to be a positive ritual, it's not going to be a frightening experience. You'll simply enter an enhanced sleep. It's nothing to be afraid of."

Clark scowled again. "I'm not even _sleepy,"_ he complained. "How am I ever supposed to fall asleep when I'm sitting here fretting and worrying and--" His eyes rolled up in his head and he fell over in a heap.

Saturn Queen caught Bruce's arm as he started forward. "We can't touch him now, not for the next twelve hours. That would disrupt the dream state, and could be quite dangerous to him." Cosmic King took a blanket and put it cautiously over the sleeping teen, careful not to come into contact with him. Eve pulled Bruce gently toward the door. "We shouldn't even be here; our research makes it very clear the dreamer must be left alone."

Bruce paused in the doorway and looked back once. Clark had pulled the blankets up under his chin. One flannel-clad arm dangled off the dais; starlight bathed his face. He was smiling slightly. The door slid shut between Bruce and his brother.

Two hours later, a slight form clad in black slipped into the room through an air vent. Bruce was pretty sure his parents were smart enough to have the door set off an alarm in their quarters if opened.

He stood near the sleeping form of his brother. Clark was lying on his side, his features soft in starlight. His brows were knit in concentration at the moment; as Bruce watched the expression melted to an affectionate smile. What was he dreaming of? Where was he going, all alone, without Bruce?

Clark shifted sharply and muttered something inaudible, looking worried now. Bruce found himself two steps closer to Clark, his hand out to comfort him somehow. He pulled it back with an effort. He wasn't going to risk disturbing Clark's sleep, he just wanted to...be nearby. To keep watch over him. He curled his fingers into his palm, brushing the healing scab there.

For an hour, then two, Bruce watched Clark dream under the stars. Most of the time his brother merely smiled quietly. More than once, however, tears crept from beneath his lashes and tracked silver down his face, leaving Bruce aching all over. Now and then his breath came faster and what was unmistakably ecstacy wavered across his face. Bruce couldn't even begin to figure out how he felt then, but he couldn't look away, either. Who was Clark dreaming of? What kind of life was he living? Was he living out a dream-life on Krypton as Kal-el, surrounded by other Kryptonians, as strong and bright and beautiful as he was?

It happened so suddenly Bruce had no chance to melt into the shadows: Clark's eyes opened, locked onto Bruce's as if he had known exactly where his brother was standing. Panic clutched Bruce's throat--he had messed up the ritual, Clark would get hurt, it was all his fault--

 _"Bruce."_ Clark's eyes were nearly lambent, gold-washed blue and shining. He smiled at Bruce as if they were in the middle of a conversation and he had suddenly realized something wonderful and had to share it. "Bruce. I've seen it." His voice was joy itself.

Bruce swallowed hard. "Seen...you've had a dream? Of another life?"

 _"A_ dream? _A_ life? Oh, Bruce." A laugh like sunlight. Sunlight and flannel. "I can see them all. All the dreams, each one a story. There are so many, Bruce, so many." He laughed again, incredulously. "I was so worried that you wouldn't be there, wouldn't be in my dream. God, how _stupid_ I am. Countless dreams, countless lives...and you're always there with me, in every one. Every single one."

Bruce couldn't move, rooted in place by a fierce joy like none he had ever felt before.

Clark's voice was dreamy and distant; his eyes looked into and through Bruce. "There was a dream where I was a samurai and you were a Japanese girl, a ninja--"

"--hey, why was _I_ the girl?"

Clark's eyes glinted. "You're prettier than I am."

Bruce glowered to hide both his pleasure and his confusion as Clark continued. "There was a story where you wore a black trenchcoat and a moon on your chest, and I had white hair and a halo--" he ignored Bruce's snort this time, "--and a life where we flew a silver starship together and _you_ were an alien with pointed ears, and _I_ was the human, and a dream where we were warrior boys like birds, a condor and an eagle flying together, and a story where we were rebels together and you shot me three times and killed me because you couldn't trust me." He laughed tenderly at Bruce's wince. "And so many others, Bruce, infinite stories. Always together. The sun and the moon." His eyes drifted shut.

"Which one is real?"

Clark yawned. "None of them are real. All of them are true. All the good stories are true stories."

He fell silent and Bruce thought he had fallen asleep again, but then Clark opened his brilliant eyes. Held out his hand to Bruce.

Bruce stood still, yearning, not moving. "I'm...not supposed to touch you."

Clark smiled sleepily. "Don't be ridiculous."

Slowly Bruce stepped forward and took Clark's hand, let himself be pulled down onto the starlit dais next to his brother. Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce, curling up behind him.

Clark heard Bruce's heart beating, steady and sure next to him, always.

Bruce felt Clark's arms about him, holding him close and safe, always.

Around them they felt the universe weave and unweave itself as they slipped into sleep, darkness and light unravelling to be formed anew, over and over. The Sun and the Moon.

They dreamed together.

Always.


	27. December:  Earth and Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When last we left our pair, Bruce had been an ass in about every possible way. It's been over a month since then.

**December 22**

It was unusually cold in Paris. The fireplace in the hotel room was blazing brightly as Bruce Wayne and his wards unwound after a long day in the Paris social whirl.

The billionaire and his two charges were the toast of Paris society this Christmas season. Today they had spent most of the day at a genetics convention; this apparent interest in science was easily explained by the fact that Bruce Wayne had recently been spending a great deal of time with Dr. Giselle Mercier, one of the leading researchers in the field. All three men had gamely attended various panels on human genetics, doing their best to feign interest in the abstruse discussions. The youngest one had at one point nodded off in the middle of one lecture after scribbling page after page of random doodles on a notepad. Then there was the Christmas party of the evening--there was always at least one a night during December--where the trio was eagerly courted by anyone with an eye for handsome men. They had torn themselves away as the clock struck midnight, making their apologies effusively. Conversation swirled in their wake about which man was most appealing: the teen-ager with the sharp smile and eager grace, the young man with the charming laugh and dancer's body, or the older man with the exquisite manners and incongruously sad eyes.

Now the three of them were recuperating in their own ways from the day. Tim was asleep on the luxurious Persian rug in front of the fire, curled up like a dog, his encrypted notes scattered around him. His recent burning interest in the field of genetics was the driving force behind their attendance at the convention today. Bruce was fairly certain he knew what motives were harrying Robin. He didn't know exactly how he felt about that yet.

Dick was in a chair by the window, answering emails on his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Christmas music played quietly in the background--at Dick's insistence. "It's Christmas time, and we _will_ listen to Christmas carols," he had said firmly as he set up the iPod speakers. "Adeste Fideles" gave way to the strains of "Angels We Have Heard on High." Bruce sighed.

Bruce was sitting in a chair covered with red velvet upholstery and gold cording, reading the day's edition of _Le Monde,_ getting caught up on the news of the day. The room was filled with a companionable silence, broken only by the music, the crackling of the fire, the clicking of computer keys, and the rustling of newspaper pages.

Dick finished up a message to Barbara and hit "send." He paused to look around the hotel room, enjoying the sight of his family, each relaxing in their own way. He cherished the moments like this during their year-long sabbatical, holding them in his heart against lonely times that he knew--inevitably--would come. They were Bats, after all.

As his eyes passed over his mentor, he saw the newspaper in Bruce's hands go still for a second, then shiver slightly, as if the hands holding it were shaking a little. After a moment, Bruce folded the paper up carefully. He stared at the fire with a rueful smile on his face--the closest thing Dick had seen to a real smile for over a month. Then he stood up, carrying the newspaper with him, and went into the bedroom, emerging a moment later in a black turtleneck and slacks and carrying a small backpack. He knelt next to Tim and rumpled the sleeping boy's hair; Tim batted at the hand and stirred slightly. Then he moved to clap Dick on the shoulder briefly.

"What is it, Bruce?"

Bruce moved to the door. "Unfinished business. Don't wait up for me." The door swung shut and he was gone.

Tim rubbed his eyes. "What just happened?"

"I'm...not sure."

Dick went into Bruce's room, Tim trailing after. The newspaper was folded neatly on the bed. Dick picked it up and the headline leapt at him:

 **Metropolis Reporter Detained in Tazbekistan**   
_Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent has been detained by the government of Tazbekistan under charges of terrorism and conspiracy against Tazbek leader Shavkat Mirziyayev. Kent had been investigating reports that the United States had established secret prisons there for "outsourcing" or "rendition" of terrorism suspects, circumventing the Geneva Conventions. The Tazbek government has a long history of human rights violations, including three sanctions by the United Nations for the torture of political prisoners._

The article went on to describe some of the kinds of torture prisoners had been subjected to in the Tazbek secret prisons. Dick got as far as prisoners being dipped in boiling oil and put the newspaper down, feeling sick. He and Tim looked at each other, the only sound the incongruous notes of "Silent Night" playing in the room behind them.

"Should we--should we go after him?" said Tim. "What do we do?"

Dick considered the look in Bruce's eyes as he left the room. "I think we contact everyone in the community we can and let them know the situation. And then I guess we wait."

"Sit here in front of the fire and _wait?_ Are you _kidding?_ They could be--" Tim's eyes lit on the newspaper-- "--pulling Clark's fingernails out, or putting electrodes on his--" he broke off again at the look on Dick's face. "--and Bruce is going in there alone and you say to _wait?"_

"If he had wanted us along, he would have asked us. He has his reasons. He always does." Dick ignored Tim's derisive snort and headed back to the computer to send some highly-coded top-priority messages.

"You have a lot of faith in him."

"I have a lot of faith in both of them."

 **: : :**

 **December 24**

Clark was alone. The cell was brightly lit with a cold florescent light that kept him from sleeping. Time had become a blurring haze where the only significant marker was the passage of pain. There had been no food or water for a long stretch of pain. The floor and walls of his cell were filthy with dirt, blood, and waste. It was very cold. From the thinness of the air he had gathered that he was being held in the high mountains, the foothills of the Himalayas to the east of the country.

There would be no rescue. He knew that. His friends and acquaintances knew better than to risk an international incident by violating another country's sovereignty. He had been forced to stand back so many times himself rather than exacerbate international tensions. This seemed, at some level, only fair.

Besides, it wasn't like he was actually one of them anymore. Superman, leader of the Justice League, might have been worth the risk. But no one was foolhardy enough to violate international law to save Clark Kent, reporter in over his damn fool head.

He was probably going to die here. Eventually.

He regretted that his death would grieve his friends and family. He knew Diana would blame herself for not being able to save him. Pete and Lana would be there for each other, and he trusted them to be there for his parents as well. His parents. His mother had told him once that parents should never outlive their children. Jimmy would feel badly and miss his friend. Perry would probably feel guilty that Clark Kent had died because he was finally on the scene when news happened. His colleagues would mourn the loss of a "great hero." Dick would miss the man whom he had--for some reason--idolized so much as a child. He wondered how Lois would feel.

Cold light kept him from sleeping, kept him from dreaming. He tried to dream anyway. He lost track of what was dreaming and what was waking sometimes. It all hurt.

Eventually they took him from the cell and put him in a room and did more things to him, until it was finally too much. His thoughts slipped sideways, through the cracks between dream and reality, and eluded them.

Clark Kent fled into the darkness inside his mind, deeper and deeper, to a starlit place where his brother was waiting for him.

 **: : :**

 **December 25**

"Vasily Bodrogligeti" smiled at the guard and held up his ID. If the guard thought he looked dangerous--well, most professional interrogators looked dangerous. He waved the dark-haired, wolf-eyed man through.

Bruce made his way through the complex to where he'd be meeting his erstwhile "superiors." With one part of his mind he assessed the security he saw in place. Another part of his mind was assessing a very different, but related, situation. The two threads of thought wove back and forth so quickly in his mind that he wasn't always sure when he had moved from one to the other.

 _Lax security. They're counting on their remoteness to keep them secure. And here I am, walking proof that remoteness doesn't keep you secure. Their guards aren't on high alert, but there are enough of them that there's no chance we can avoid all of them. So total avoidance isn't an option. Avoidance, remoteness--none of that helps if you're unable to address the root problem. I don't want to address the root problem anymore, I just want my brother back. The root problem facing us right now is getting to the jeep, then getting that jeep to a safe enough location that I can summon the jet. Summoned, nothing I can do about it, how could I have ever dreamed I could break this just by breaking his heart? Behind one of these cell doors, he's behind one of these doors and I don't know which one, they could be hurting him right now, torturing him, no wonder I can fit in so well here. Their weaponry appears to be mostly old Soviet-era, with some newer American additions, some grenade launchers and mortars. He's behind one of these doors, doors closed forever, doors I slammed shut. No. The idiot will forgive even me. Clark, you idiot. I'm here._

He entered what seemed to be a break room. The torturers' break room. It never ceased to amaze him how the horrific and banal could exist side by side. A heavy-set man with dead eyes was drinking a cup of coffee. Bruce recognized him immediately as the interrogator called "The Butcher." Clark had merited the attention of the Butcher? Impressive, thought one part of his mind. Another part of his mind curled up and wailed in agony. And a third part woke up and eyed the man in front of him dispassionately.

"Ah, my new assistant," said the Butcher, standing up to shake his hand. "I must say, you come highly recommended. Please, have a seat." He gestured toward a chair. "Coffee?"

"Thank you."

The Butcher handed him a steaming mug as they sat down. "Let me fill you in on the case of this American reporter. He's a tough one and we're not making much progress, although it's just a matter of time, of course. I'm afraid he's unconscious at the moment. We got a little over-enthusiastic with the waterboarding, you know how it is."

Bruce nodded and smiled as the man detailed what he had done to Bruce's brother. Oh, he knew how it was, yes he did. He thought about the many ways he could kill this man. There probably wouldn't be time to torture him in turn, unfortunately. But he could rip his throat out or crush his Adam's apple, or simply break his neck. There would certainly be several sharp utensils in the room that he could use to at least cut off the hands that had hurt Clark. Or gouge out the eyes that had dared to look so dispassionately upon Clark's suffering.

"Are you all right, Mr. Bodrogligeti?" It took Bruce a few seconds to remember that was his name at the moment. "You're sweating."

"Just a...touch of altitude sickness, sir." Bruce swallowed bile with his coffee.

"Yes, it can get to one sometimes. Well," the man said, pushing his chair back. "If you're done with your coffee, we can go check and see if the subject is awake again yet. Then perhaps we can get this unpleasant business over with."

"I'm looking forward to it, sir."

Bruce's hands were shaking.

 **: : :**

Clark came reluctantly out of his memories to the sound of two familiar voices discussing what was to be done with him next. One was familiar because he had heard it asking him questions for the last few days. The other--

Clark pried his eyes open to see Bruce--his brother-- _Bruce_ standing with his back to him, facing his interrogator, who was speaking. "The waterboarding didn't go so well, so I thought we might try some electrical work today." Clark saw Bruce's hands clench. As the Butcher finished speaking, Bruce moved with vicious quickness, sending the torturer crashing against the wall and into unconsciousness. Bruce grabbed the Butcher by the collar and held him there, his whole being coiled and tense, death in every line.

There was a long moment of equilibrium while Bruce struggled, unmoving.

Then Bruce slowly lowered the Butcher's limp body to the ground, almost gently, and stepped away from it. He looked for a moment longer at the unconscious form, squared his shoulders, then sighed as if he had won a long struggle rather than a one-punch fight.

He turned and saw Clark looking at him.

In an instant he was at Clark's side, loosening the restraints that bound Clark's hands to the interrogation chair, his head lowered so that Clark could no longer see his face. "This is the part where you say, 'I knew you'd come for me.'"

"But I didn't."

Bruce flinched.

He knelt at Clark's feet to work on those bonds as well, his hands unsteady. He stayed kneeling a moment longer when he was done, looking down. "Clark. I will always come for you. I was an idiot and wrong and I'm sorry." The soles of Clark's feet were torn and bloody; he reached out as if to touch them and stopped himself. "You have no reason to forgive me."

"You're right. I don't." Clark swallowed painfully and started to say something else, but at that moment another assistant entered the room. The new arrival made a surprised sound, then joined the Butcher up against the wall, unconscious. Bruce knelt to put his arm around Clark and get him to his feet. "No time. Can you walk?"

"I--guess I'll have to, won't I?"

"I'm afraid so."

They made their way slowly through the complex, trying not to attract too much attention. Now and then they encountered a guard and Bruce dealt with the interruption while Clark leaned dizzily against a wall. He felt sick with worry that Bruce would get hurt, that he wouldn't have the chance to say what he needed to say.

If anyone had any chance of getting him out of here, it was Bruce, but he wasn't so addled as to think it was a good chance.

As they exited the building, harsh morning sunlight hit Clark's eyes like a blow. The world fragmented into rainbow shards in his tearing eyes, and it took him a moment to realize that a klaxon had started to sound inside the complex. Bruce grabbed his arm. "I suggest we run now."

Clark managed to break into a bone-rattling trot in the direction Bruce pulled him. He ached all over and could hardly breathe in the thin air. Bruce's muttered curses made it clear they were not going in the direction he had wanted to go. Bullets whined past them, and then there was a deep bass concussion nearby that flung both of them for yards, debris whistling by them.

Clark skidded to a stop in the snow, Bruce somehow cradled in his arms. He realized abruptly that his foot was hanging over empty air. The two of them were on the edge of a precipice, a slate shelf over a chasm that had to be thousands of feet deep. The glare of sun on snow was dizzying. Wind curled up from the edge of the cliff like knives, lifting the snow in icy wisps around them.

"I hope you've got something in your bag of tricks, Bruce," muttered Clark. No response. He looked down to see Bruce's eyes closed, a trickle of blood running down his cheek. "Bruce!"

The next shell landed nearby and the shelf crumbled and collapsed. Clark wrapped his arms tightly around his brother and felt the ground give way to air around them.

It was a long way down.

He had time to think that if his powers were ever going to return, now would be a good time.

He had time to think that if they were going to die here, at least they would be together.

He heard Bruce's heart beating, steady and sure in his arms, and he smiled.

He found the sky.

 **: : :**

Bruce was being held close in strong arms. He felt safe. He wrapped himself more snugly around Clark and nuzzled his neck.

He felt air underneath his feet and all around him.

Bruce pulled away, body stiff and startled. Beneath and around him the Himalayas reeled. In front of him Clark--Superman-- _Clark_ held him gingerly at arm's length, like one might hold an angry cat. Sunlight glowed through his tattered shirt onto the unbroken, unblemished body which had shrugged off the petty hurts mere humans had done to it. The icy wind drew tears from Bruce's eyes as he looked at Clark, whole and well against the sky. They coursed down his face and he didn't bother to wipe them away, because there was no shame in weeping from the glare and the wind. Clark just looked at him, neither smiling nor frowning, just looking.

After a moment Bruce cleared his throat. "I see you have your powers back," he said as conversationally as possible.

Superman shifted in the air slightly. "That's not all I have back. So you can stop pretending you're uncomfortable flying with me." A difficult pause followed, in which Bruce went, if anything, more rigid and uncomfortable than before.

Clark's voice was soft. "I broke my promise to you. I said I'd never leave you or give up on you no matter what." His face was still expressionless. "Forgive me."

Then crimson glinted briefly in the depths of his eyes. "You _let me_ break that promise, Bruce."

A pause. Bruce spoke very low but clearly, looking down into the dizzying fall below him. "I did worse than that."

"You never broke your promise to me."

Bruce shook his head. "I didn't break it. I used it against you. I twisted it and hurt you with it." He wished the wind would stop making his eyes water so much. His voice was a whisper no human could have heard. "And...I _have_ feared you. But not because you're not human." Clark was broken into a thousand fragments, like looking through crystals. "You have no reason to forgive me," Bruce said again.

"You're right. I don't," repeated Superman. Clark's fingers brushed along Bruce's face and came away wet. He touched the tips of his fingers to his lips wonderingly, then smiled, almost to himself.

There was another silence. Clark's smile was the point of the universe on which everything turned, but Bruce still refused to relax, holding his body awkwardly away from the other man. Clark sighed. "Couldn't you have just mentioned that we'd lived together for twenty years in another universe?"

"You didn't want to remember. I didn't want you to remember what we did. What I did."

 _"You didn't do that,_ Bruce." Clark pulled him a bit closer, his jaw set. "If someone found a way to force the Joker's memories into you, would you then have killed Jason Todd? Memories aren't actions, Bruce. You didn't do that. You're not him."

Bruce found his hands knotted in the shreds of Clark's shirt. "If I'm not him, then _why do I feel this way about you?"_ It was almost a wail.

Superman laughed. Sunlight all around them. It should have been cold at this altitude. Bruce wasn't cold. "Well, I would never dare to speak for _you_ , Bruce, but I feel the way I do because...because it's _right._ In a thousand worlds, it's right. It was the one thing they didn't get wrong. Eve, Mekt, Laevar--they saw with a clarity we never dared, how right we are together.

Because I have _always_ felt this way. _Always."_

He nudged Bruce closer still, and Bruce felt his body relaxing despite himself, slowly fitting into the warm hollows and curves of Clark's body where it was comfortable and familiar and at home. He still refused to fully embrace the other man, keeping himself pulled back far enough to see those blue eyes clearly.

Clark shook him, very gently. "We don't feel this way because _they_ did, Bruce. They felt the way they did because _we_ do. _They're_ the reflections, not us. Through a glass darkly."

Bruce smiled a little. "But now face to face?"

Eyes like the sky. "'Then I knew in part; but now I know even as also I am known.'"

He tried not to smile and failed. "Misquoting the Bible, shame on you." The smile fell away. "I want to believe you," he whispered.

"Trust your brother. Trust Superman." The Kryptonian had on his most charismatic, "I am to be obeyed without question" look.

Bruce met those dazzling alien eyes squarely, looked beyond them. "I trust Clark Kent." The alpha-Kryptonian melted away into bemused happiness and a smile that Bruce knew he'd never deserve. But there didn't seem to be anyone else around at the moment to accept it. This time he moved closer without Superman's prompting to taste that sunlit skin. Clark laughed joyously and dropped them into freefall, then back into the air in a dizzying parabola, the mountains tumbling beneath them, kissing Bruce until he was breathless and laughing too.

Eventually Superman coasted to a stop, hovering parallel to the distant ground, Bruce's weight resting on top of him. He stretched. "It feels good, doesn't it? The sunlight."

Bruce remembered something he had to mention. He hesitated. "You had your memories back in the prison, didn't you?" Clark nodded. "You watched me. With the Butcher. You knew that I was thinking of..." He made himself say it clearly, "...of killing him. You didn't say anything to try and stop me. Why?"

Clark looked at him gravely. "I knew I didn't need to. You're Bruce Wayne. You're _Batman."_ He said it as though it explained everything.

Bruce put his head down on Superman's chest. "Thank you," he said after a moment.

Clark swung them both back to a standing position, still thousands of feet above the ground, the wind all around them like a benediction. Bruce looked out at the white-capped mountains surrounding them and smiled. "Well, Clark, it's not many lovers who can--what are you grinning about? Do you find my word choice amusing?"

"Not at all." Clark looked like he might never manage to stop smiling.

"As I was saying, it's not many lovers--" the word was emphasized slightly but distinctly-- "who can literally say that they gave each other the Earth."

Clark floated higher, his arms warm around Bruce, pulling him close and kissing his hair, feeling their heartbeats weaving with the rhythm of the sunlight and wind all around them. He spoke softly.

"We may no longer have the earth, Bruce, but we still have the sky."


End file.
